


And They Will All Bow

by Winterotter



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Jon Snow, BAMF Starks, Eventually: - Freeform, Game of Thrones Spoilers, In the Beginning, Jon Snow Never Bent the Knee, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is King-Beyond-the-Wall, M/M, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Perhaps not Daenerys fan friendly, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa Stark is the Lady of Winterfell, it's mostly in part 2 and 3, of all kinds - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterotter/pseuds/Winterotter
Summary: Jon Snow has lived a long and fulfilling life - for a bastard son of an otherwise honorable Warden of the North. In his time he has seen a lot of amazing, and terrifying, things.None of it mattered as much as the people, the pack, he'd met along the way.





	1. Now it Begins

**Author's Note:**

> This piece needs a bit more explanation than I usually give at the beginning. This started as just a piece exploring Jon/Tormund and then it got angsty and then plot-y, and then it exploded from there. It got really long so I split it into two parts. 
> 
> It was a challenge to myself to reach the major endings for the characters but to do it in very different ways. One of the big differences that set off everything is a lack of Jon/Daenerys as a romance and that leads to Jon not bending the knee. The story picks up mid S8 but the changes started in S7.

* * *

“By the gods,” Jon breathed against Tormund’s neck, the man’s coarse beard scraping against his forehead as he buried his face there. Jon pulled him closer, the vice around his throat easing only when they were pressed together, Tormund a warm contrast to the cold stone behind him. 

“Shush,” Tormund said, “slow down, little crow,” his words didn’t calm Jon, instead they made his pulse race, his hands more eager, more frantic. What were they even doing? They weren’t hidden at all, anyone could round the corner and spot them in the hallway.

Sansa could stumble on them at any moment - they had made it as far as the family wing of Winterfell but no further. She or Arya or Bran could turn down this hall at any moment. 

“Seven hells,” Jon said, “we should -“

Tormund’s mouth smothered his words, drawing him into a rough kiss that was more teeth than anything else. Tormund kissed him with a single-mindedness Jon had only seen him award to fighting in the past, it was part of what made the wilding a formidable opponent. 

Madness, this was madness and stupidity. 

They were pressed so close that Jon could feel every inch of Tormund pressed against him. Tormund was struggling to unfasten Jon’s shirt, his hands shoving through the first opening wide enough to the skin beneath. He arched into the touch, wanting Tormund’s hands on him.

Jon couldn’t remember ever needing to be touched this much. He wanted Tormund’s hands on him, all over him, all at once.

“I won’t last much longer,” he said in Tormund’s ear. 

“Good, means I’m doing this right,” Tormund answered, his words just as quiet and tight with strain. The knot of tension in Jon’s stomach eased, relieved to know he wasn’t the only one so affected. 

“I want to feel you, Gods, I want to touch your skin,” Jon’s hands found where Tormund’s fur coat met his pants and he took advantage of the gap to slip his hands under his coat and his tunic. To his credit, Tormund didn’t flinch when his cold hands found his warm back and pressed there, finding a grip and holding on like his life depended on it. 

His head fell back against the wall, and Tormund leaned forward to lick and bite at his jaw, trailing down his neck. “Pretty little crow,” Tormund was saying into his skin, “so fucking pretty. Prettier than my daughters, prettier than the Dragon Queen, than all the queens in the south,”

Jon used his grip on Tormund’s back to pull him closer, rutting up against him with an abandon that would embarrass him later. But in this moment. he didn’t care, gods, he couldn’t muster even an ounce of shame. 

“Tormund,” he said, trying to warn him before losing his words to a drawn-out groan. 

Tormund grunted in answer, thrusting against him fast and hard. Jon felt him coming with him, the both of them panting like they’d just finished a battle. He tilted his head back down, finding Tormund’s mouth. This kiss was slower, open mouths pressed together and breathing as they eased down from their high. 

But Jon couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop kissing him, couldn’t stop touching him.

“Gods,” he said when they parted to breathe, “that was...”

Tormund bit at his jaw, his teeth sharp against his skin and making him jump.

“Must you bring religion into fucking?” Tormund huffed.

Jon didn’t have any more breath to speak. He should be releasing Tormund, should be easing away physically and mentally. He didn’t have time for this, had his people to think of, but he couldn’t just then. He wanted one moment to be selfish, to reach out for something he wanted and have it. He pushed off the wall to crowd into Tormund, surprising the wildling into stepping back until he was pressed against the opposite wall. 

He stood up on his tiptoes and scraped their faces together, and Tormund - he nudged and nuzzled him back. Pressed this close, Jon could feel the silly grins on both their faces. They’re both mostly dressed, their clothes awry but still on. Tormund had one hand on the small of his back, the other had found its way to his hair and was pulling the knot there loose. His fingers combed through his curls and Jon went just a bit more boneless, sagging into Tormund who held him up with a chuckle. 

He had just had sex with a man, one of the few people Jon could honestly say he trusted with his life, with Ghost’s life, with his siblings’ lives. This would change things between them, it would have to. 

But he didn’t pull away, he left his face pressed against Tormund’s. He couldn’t let go, and Tormund hadn’t made a move to let go and move away either. 

After a moment more Tormund did move, but only to tilt their foreheads together. “That was fucking amazing,” he said.

Jon closed his eyes and laughed. 

Tormund kissed him again, or he kissed him, it didn’t matter who started it. They shouldn’t stay here, they should move to his room, or Tormund’s, or anywhere less exposed. 

“I - we should,” Jon said, “my chambers.  There’s a bed. We can go for round two.”

Tormund shook his head, a small movement but one that cut through Jon. Of course, Tormund hadn’t been shy about admiring others, he had options besides Jon and had never shown any inclination towards keeping to one person. Jon was an overeager fool - he always thought gestures like this meant more than they did. He was a noble fool, just like Sansa was always saying - 

“The Dragon Queen and your sister will expect to see you at the feast,” Tormund said, “but after...”

“Yes, after,” Jon said, shoving down his insecurities and forcing himself to disengage and step back. It was cold, standing in the hallway without Tormund’s warmth. He straightened his clothes as best he could and strode off before he could change his mind and decide to skip the feast and abscond with Tormund. 

He found Sansa sitting on his bed, a new, thicker and more regal, fur cloak spread out beside her. He stopped in the doorway, eyeing her innocent smile warily.

“It has the Stark family sigil,” she said, reaching over to caress the leather straps, “stitched in white, for our White Wolf. With Royalty visiting, you can’t get away with dressing below your station the way you have been since you returned. You are Daenerys’ equal in status, Jon, you’re our king. Stop letting her upstage you outside of the battlefield.” 

He sighed but resigned himself to being dressed by his sister. 

“Also,” Sansa stood up and sashayed over with a smile edging into a smirk, “the pelts will help hide these.”

She danced her fingers down his jaw and neck. 

Jon flushed, remembering who had last touched him there and not with their fingers. 

Sansa giggled, a sound he hadn’t heard in far too long and he couldn’t help but smile. Any embarrassment on his part was worth a giggle on hers.

* * *

“So there we were, on the frontlines, when there was a blast of heat! And there you were, on the back of a dragon, like the mad fucker you are,”

Jon grinned into his ale, enchanted by Tormund’s frank admiration. He’d drawn an odd crowd of Wildings and Northmen over to listen to him tell stories of not just this battle, but of the Battle of the Bastard, of Hardhome, and even of the Battle for the Wall when they’d been on opposite sides of the fight. And in all of them, he made Jon sound like a fearless hero, like one of the princes Sansa used to read stories about. 

“What kind of man does that?” Tormund asked the group, “a king! Our king, King in the North and King Beyond the Wall now that the others are gone!”

Tormund waved his drink in the air until it slopped over onto his hands. 

“Now, as our king, I think you should prove your real worth and finish this drink,” Tormund offered him his horn, a glint in his eyes.

Jon tried to wave him off, “no, not all in one go. We’re celebrating, I’d rather not wake up sick tomorrow.” 

“Go on, Jon,” Sansa cut in, leaning forward in her chair to place her free hand on his knee, “I believe in you, and besides, what king doesn’t answer a request from one of his most trusted warriors?”

She smiled up at him, and Jon felt some of his resolve crumble. As children she’d rarely looked to him for anything, choosing to ply Robb or father with affection when she needed or wanted something. Then, Jon had laughed at how easily they’d fallen to her whims, but he understood them better now that she turned those eyes on him.

Tormund threw his arm around Jon’s shoulders, nearly pulling him off the table, “you heard the lady, pretty crow.”

Jon looked between the two, Sansa’s big falsely-pleading eyes and Tormund’s wide guileless grin and knew he couldn’t deny them. 

He was reaching for the cup when Daenerys spoke - the first time she’d spoken since attempting to legitimize Gendry. It hadn’t gone over well when the young man had thanked her and then turned to Jon to request a holding in the North instead, one Arya wouldn’t feel shackled to, one that wouldn’t need a Lady or a Lord who knew what they were doing. 

Jon expected to hear of a betrothal between the two any day now. 

“Perhaps you should abstain, Jon,” Daenerys said, catching the attention of the entire group milling around him, Tormund and Sansa. “I need you clear-minded for the war council tomorrow.”

Sansa’s hand, still resting on his knee, tightened to the point of pain. “Should we not let the men rest, celebrate the end of this war, before we talk of another?” she asked. 

Jon covered Sansa’s hand with his, exchanging a look with first her and then Tormund before looking to Daenerys.

She was pale, shadows of grief lining her face, a shallow imitation of the woman he’d first met in Dragonstone. The woman he’d told his parentage to in hopes of having a new family member, one who would embrace this new side of himself. 

He had hoped she would be happy to know she wasn’t a Targaryen alone in the world, any more than he was a lone wolf without a pack. 

Instead, she’d seen a King who had already refused to bend the knee, a King who now had a better claim to the Iron Throne than her. It didn’t seem to matter that he didn’t want it, that he wouldn’t have even accepted being King in the North if it hadn’t been a necessary step to ready them for fighting the Night King. 

“We’ll discuss holding a war council in the morning,” he said, nodding to the untouched wine in her hand, “we should all take the opportunity to celebrate being alive,” before she could respond he took the horn from Tormund’s hand and tipped it back. 

It was awful, drinking so much so fast, but judging from the cheering and encouragement he could hear it had been suitably distracting. 

He lowered it once it was empty, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I knew you could do it,” Sansa said, her smile bright but trembling. She knew as well as he did how thin the ice they were walking on was. 

He risked a glance over to Daenerys and winced at the stony expression on her face, at the white-knuckled grip around her still full glass of wine. She set it down and stood from her chair. A few in the room looked her way but no one quieted and no one stood to attention as she surveyed the room and swept out.

It may have been different if there had been Unsullied or Dothraki present, but both of those armies had been decimated and the survivors had not joined the main celebration in the hall. Jon knew a few were out on the grounds, gathered around bonfires.

Sansa collapsed back into her seat and Tormund sat down on Jon’s abandoned seat. The men who had been crowding them sensed the change in mood and moved away, joining their brethren at the lower tables. 

Jon shifted on the table to sit on it more fully, bringing one foot up to rest on the chair next to Tormund’s thigh. The amount he’d had to drink was beginning to catch up with him, he realized, as he swayed a bit before finding his balance anew. 

“That going to be a problem, isn’t it?” Tormund asked, sounding surprisingly sober despite having drunk twice as much as Jon had. 

Sansa sighed, tipping her wine back and finishing it. “I don’t think she’s the woman you met in Dragonstone anymore Jon. The woman I’ve gotten to know, I don’t think she’d risk her dragons to rescue you Beyond the Wall.” 

Jon didn’t have an answer for that, not one that wouldn’t ring false. Daenerys had changed, after losing Viserion and now again after losing Jorah. With each loss, she became a bit more frayed and it worried him. 

“Do you trust me?” He asked instead, leaning closer to Sansa and swaying a bit on the spot until warm hands caught his middle and steadied him. He sent Tormund a grateful look.

Sansa stood, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re my big brother and the king we chose, I trust you, Jon.”

He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Thank you, Sansa.”

She nodded, leaned over to kiss Tormund’s cheek too and then left the room through the door that led straight to the family wing of Winterfell, a few of the guards who had volunteered to abstain from celebrating and stay on duty followed her out. He hoped she found some peace and was able to relax a bit before the coming storm. 

Tormund’s hands were still gripping his waist and tugged him over a bit on the table so he was fully in front of him, the movement sent his head spinning and he braced his hand against the table in an attempt to find stability. 

“I’m not a doll for you to tug this way and that,” Jon told him, his scolding tone ruined by the smile he could feel his lips tilting up into. He never could hold his mask around Tormund, the fire-kissed wilding had a way of taking down his defenses and allowing him to express emotions more openly than he ever had. 

“Aye I know, you’re small but strong,” 

“And you chose to follow me,”

“We do not kneel, but we do follow those who prove worthy of it. Mance would be proud, you know. You may not have struck the killing blow, but without you, none of us would have survived long enough to see the end of the Night King.”

Jon had to look away, his eyes stinging and his throat tight. He had admired Mance Rayder, had learned as much about leading from him as from Lord Commander Mormont. 

There was a tug on his hair and he glanced back, startled to find Tormund stroking a stray curl. “You left your hair loose, little crow.”

“I’m a free man now,” Jon said after a moment, “my duty is done.”

Tormund frowned, dropping his hair after one last tug. “You still have to be king,”

Jon leaned over, close enough to whisper in Tormund’s ear. “Once I finish negotiating with Daenerys, or Cersei if she somehow comes out on top, and everything is settled, I plan to abdicate the Throne in the North to Sansa.”

From this close he could hear Tormund’s sharp inhale, his beard brushing his face as the man tried to turn to see him better.

“And what of the free folk? The Northmen will bend the knee to Ned Stark’s daughter, but us free men? We followed you, Jon.”

“I know,” Jon pulled back and slid to the ground, planting his feet firmly even as the room spun around him again. “I didn’t say I’d abdicate the land beyond the wall or the free folk. What do you say, Tormund? Do you want to take back the True North?” 

Tormund stood too, crowding in close to  Jon, “I think we should seek out your chambers now, so I can show you properly how much I like that idea.” 

* * *

He had thought Tormund was a good kisser earlier that day when they had desperately grabbed each other in that hallway after the mass funeral. 

But Tormund full of wine and giddy and full of joy that they were alive? That was another thing altogether. It had been a struggle to sneak from the banquet hall without being waylaid by either people who wanted to shake Jon’s hand or people who wanted another story from Tormund but they’d managed, leaving through the same door as Sansa. Jon had waved off the last of the guards who’d been on watch and told them to either join the celebration or join those guarding Sansa. 

And now they were finally in his chambers, sprawled across his bed. They were still half-dressed, they’d lost their cloaks and coats and were left in their shirts and pants, the drink in them having left them too clumsy to get properly undressed. Tormund was cupping his face with one hand while the other had worked its way under him to grab his ass. And yes, he was being kissed in a slow dizzying manner. He was being kissed like they had all the time in the world, kissed like it was the main event, not the precursor. 

Jon arched up into Tormund, rocking into him and bringing their hips together. Tormund’s hand slid from under him and pinned him down, “not this time little crow, we’re doing it my way this time.”

“Your way is agonizingly slow?”

Tormund nipped at his lip, “aye, we’re alone, behind barred doors, and we have all the time in the world. I mean to make the most of it,”

“Not quite alone,” Jon said, looking over to the side where Ghost was sprawled by the fire. He looked a bit worse for wear, part of one of his ears missing and healing wounds on his sides, but he was sleeping soundly. Jon had cleaned and treated his wounds himself and given him some milk of the poppy. Ghost wouldn’t have let anyone else near his wounds. 

Tormund shrugged, “that ruddy wolf never leaves your side, I’ve already resigned myself to his presence. Does it bother you?”

Jon answered him with a kiss, burying his hands in Tormund’s hair and pulling him back down. For a moment, Tormund gave in, grabbing Jon as desperately in return before easing back into the teasing lazy kiss from before. Tormund’s lips were chapped from the wind, sweet with the taste of wine, and infinitely tender. 

Tormund was mumbling his name, and at first, he thought he was going to say something else before realizing he was just saying his name between kisses. It made something hot twist in his stomach. 

“Let me get my mouth on you,” Tormund said, his eyes cutting down and making it clear he didn’t mean Jon’s mouth. “I can make it good, I swear it.”

Jon didn’t need convincing, “Yes, Tormund, please.” 

Tormund grinned at him, the warm light from the fire lighting his eyes and flickering across the lines of his face as he slid lower on the bed, his hands grasping at Jon’s pants that had been unfastened but not taken off. 

“Let’s see if that pecker is as small as I remember,”

Jon choked back a laugh, reaching down to bury a hand in Tormund’s hair. It was coarser than his own, but it felt good in his hands. 

It was the work of seconds for Tormund to tug down his pants, the bite of the cold air touching him only for a moment before it was replaced with the warmth of Tormund’s mouth. His head fell back, the slick warmth overwhelming and he could feel the rumble of Tormund’s chuckle around his cock. 

And then, then Tormund began to lick and suck and it was like nothing Jon had ever experienced before. He felt hot all over, his body shaking as he fought not to buck into Tormund’s mouth. His free hand found the furs covering the bed and clenched there, holding tight. 

“Tormund,” he cried out as his pleasure climbed, fire licking down his spine and shaking him to his core, “fuck, I’m not going to last much longer.”

The fingers gripping his hips dug in deeper, his words making Tormund more enthusiastic until Jon’s vision blacked out with the force of it.

“Gods,” He said when he could breathe again, his limbs so lax he couldn’t seem to move them. 

Tormund didn’t seem capable of speaking as he crawled back up to straddle Jon, leaning down to press their mouths together in a sloppy kiss and grinding down on him. Jon managed to get one of his hands to move, reaching between them and down Tormund’s pants to help. 

His hand around Tormund’s cock undid the other man and he was coming too, breaking their kiss to breathe open-mouthed against his neck. Tormund collapsed on him, unable to hold his own weight up any longer. 

Jon pulled his hand from between them and wrapped his arms around Tormund, tugging him closer. 

He’d never seen Tormund this vulnerable, he realized, as the bigger man all but sprawled over him, his guard fully and completely down. Whatever walls had been between them, first as a Crow and a Wilding and then as a King and a loyal friend. were gone. Somehow, Tormund had snuck through his defenses and made a home in his heart.

“Fuck,” he murmured, turning to press a hard kiss to Tormund’s head. 

He never wanted this to end, he realized, never wanted to get out of this bed, never wanted leave...

“Little crow, you’re trembling,” Tormund said into his neck, “was I that good?”

Jon swallowed and used his grip on Tormund to flip them, curling into his side and twisting their legs together, “the best,” he said. He didn’t care about the mess, or that they both still needed to get properly undressed, he only cared about getting and staying as close to Tormund as possible. 

“It was a bit quicker than I planned,” Tormund was saying, one of his hands stroking patterns on Jon’s back, under his shirt. 

Jon smiled into Tormund’s skin, “we’ve got all the time in the world?”

“Aye,” Tormund said with a chuckle, “that we do.” 

* * *

Jon woke slowly the next morning, a warm weight pinning him to the bed. He lay still for a moment, hoping if he kept his eyes closed he could fall back into his peaceful sleep. He hadn’t slept that good, that deep, in years.

The hand on his hip moved as Tormund woke, rolling away with a pleased grumble and sigh. 

Jon smiled and opened his eyes, rolling over to face him. Tormund was shamelessly stretching on the bed in all his naked glory. He’d been delighted to prove to Jon last night that he was kissed by fire down there too. 

“Good morning,”

Tormund’s answer was leaning over to kiss him, and this time Jon wasn’t surprised by how gentle, and how arousing it was. He rolled on top of him, pleased to discover he wasn’t the only one excited. 

He broke the kiss and moved to mouth at Tormund’s throat, making him gasp and groan, “Jon,” he gasped in the too-quiet room, making a noise that didn’t sound human. It would be so easy, to reach down between them and continue where they’d left off last night, to -

“Jon?” said Sansa’s voice from the hall outside his room and they froze. Her words were followed by a gentle rap of her knuckles against the wooden door. 

“I had a bath drawn in the next room for you, but you need to hurry. The Dragon Queen is growing... impatient.”

Fuck, Jon mouthed before clearing his throat and finding his voice, “thank you, Sansa, I’ll be there soon.”

“Alright,” she said, “and Jon? Do hurry.” 

He listened as her footsteps slowly moved away and looked down into Tormund’s laughing blue eyes. 

He looked down pointedly, “we could both do with a wash.” 

They dressed in yesterday’s clothing, grabbed clean stuff to change into and snuck into the room next door. Luckily the hall was deserted and no one saw them.

Jon stopped just inside the doorway, eyeing the two full, steaming, wooden tubs. “Sansa,” He said, rubbing his face. Of course, she had known, getting anything past his sisters was a fool’s game these days. 

“Your sister is terrifying,” Tormund said as he edged around him to get closer to the baths. 

He looked back at Jon and waggled his eyebrows, “want to scandalize everyone in hearing range?”

Jon laughed and was tempted to agree but in the end shook his head, remembering how tense Daenerys had been the night before. What was that saying about waking the dragon? 

They rinsed off in quiet camaraderie, making quick work of getting clean. 

Once dried and dressed, Jon ran his hands through his damp curls, trying to decide whether to pull them back. It had been nice having them loose last night, he had felt more himself than he in a while. More like he had before he’d died.

“Vain pretty crow,” Tormund said, coming up behind him and knocking his hands away, “leave it wild.”

Jon laughed, leaning back into him, “you’d like that then?”

Arms wrapping around his middle and squeezing was his answer, Tormund clinging to him as tightly as he’d done the night before. He closed his eyes and let the world fall away, for just a moment. 

“I have to go, you know I do,”

“Don’t mean I have to like it,” Tormund grumbled. “I could steal you, the King in the North would be a prize to tell stories about.”

“You could,” Jon said, “but then you’d have to deal with my terrifying sister marshaling all our troops to come rescue me.”

Tormund groaned, releasing Jon and stepping away. 

Jon smirked, moving over to where Sansa had laid out another cloak, one she meant for him to wear to his meeting with Daenerys. Assuming the Queen hadn’t called the war council in his absence, which was a possibility he couldn’t dismiss. 

He shrugged it on, situating the straps before looking to Tormund. “You could come with me? If Daenerys hasn’t already called a war council, it won’t be long before she forces the issue.”

“I don’t plan to bring the free folk any further south than this, Jon. Not when the Others aren’t nipping at our heels anymore.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“Then why have me attend the meeting? To tell the Dragon Queen that to her face? You’ll get me burned to a crisp.”

Jon stood in the middle of the room, a cooling bath on either side like he hadn’t just been knifed in the heart for a second time. It was unfair - how easily Tormund could do that, could wound him and not even notice as he continued to pull on a cloak of Jon’s he was borrowing. Maybe Tormund didn’t even realize, maybe their liaisons hadn’t changed as much for him as they had for Jon. 

Tormund wasn’t given to lying, to lashing out with false words to hurt someone. He truly thought that of Jon. That he’d put him at risk like that.

“What’s with the long face?” Tormund finally figured out how to properly clasp the northern cloak and looked back at him, “were you so attached to having me at the meeting?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon said, turning to stride towards the door, “will... will you look in on Ghost before you join your men?”

He made the mistake of looking back, Tormund was staring at him with a frown. “Jon...”

“Yes?”

But Tormund didn’t say anything, the room quiet as they stood there and stared at each other. Jon glanced down, the stone floor suddenly the most interesting thing to look at.

“Is this some southern custom I’ve cocked up? Little crow, come on, tell me what I did wrong.” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jon said. The grout between the stones could use a cleaning, something to mention to Sansa once the rest of the castle was repaired. 

“I must have since you won’t turn your pretty grey eyes my way,”

Jon didn’t smile, but he did look up to pointedly meet his gaze. “I need to go before Daenerys grows any more impatient, Sansa is waiting on me.”

“I truly upset you,” Tormund said, “how? By refusing to play along in your game of politics?”

“I can’t tell if you don’t realize or are pretending you don’t,” Jon turned on his heel and tugged the door open. “Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

A hand grabbed his elbow, stopping him from leaving the room. Jon shut his eyes.

“Let me go.”

“No, not until you tell me what set you off.”

Jon was silent, he could try to pull away but Tormund had a few inches on him and the muscle to match. Jon was quicker, could win most spars between them, but in a situation such as this, he was disadvantaged. 

He sighed, “is that truly what you think of me? That I’d risk your life to score political points against Daenerys?” He asked finally, knowing he wouldn’t get out of this room or this conversation without just saying what was bothering him.

Tormund’s grip on him loosened and he jerked free, whipping around to glare at him. “None of my men, of the North, of the Watch, or of the free folk, are marching south with her. I’m going to tell her that, if she burns anyone it’ll be me first. I’ve died for my people before, I’ll do it again if it comes to that.”

He took a deep breath, stepping out into the hall, “I asked you to be there as my friend, as my... well like I said it doesn’t matter.” 

“Fuck,” Tormund hissed, stumbling forward and trying to grab onto him. This time Jon saw it coming and dodged his grasp and moved further down the hall. He turned his back and clenched his jaw as he moved towards the door that would lead out to the main hall.

“Jon,” Tormund called after him, “please, come back, let me apologize, this can’t be how we leave things. Not if you’re about to...” he trailed off and Jon looked back over his shoulder.

“About to what? Infuriate a woman who still has two dragons? Perhaps you were right to worry about your own skin.” 

“Please, Jon,” Tormund looked after him with pleading blue eyes, his hands out in front of him like he could pull Jon back if he willed it hard enough. “I speak before I think, you know that - I didn’t mean it like that. Please, let’s not end on that note.”

Jon turned fully around to face him, his arms crossed over his front, “how did you mean it?”

“The last war council, I was there to speak for the Free Folk,” he said, stepping closer slowly, “I assumed that was what you wanted from me again. I don’t think you’d let her burn me,” he was close enough now that Jon had to look up to catch his gaze, “I know better than most how willing you are to die for others. It was a joke, a bad one.” 

“Please, Jon,” he said again. It was the most Tormund had ever used his name, he realized, rather than some nickname. 

He lets his arms relax and stepped closer to Tormund, searching his face for any sign he was misreading the situation.  “I,” He started before stopping to clear his throat, “you know I would never carelessly risk your life, don’t you?”

Tormund’s hands found his waist and he didn’t pull away. 

“Aye, you only do it with extreme care.”

Jon opened his mouth to rebut that, to lighten the tension with more humor, only for a Tormund to lean down and steal his words with a kiss. He kissed him back, his hands grabbing Tormund’s shoulders, dizzy from the forceful kiss. 

They separated and Tormund leaned down to nip at Jon’s neck, grinning against the sensitive skin there. 

“Tormund,” he groaned, and Tormund kissed him there, moving further south, his hands finding Jon’s cloak and moving it aside to give him more access -

“Jon!” Arya called out as the door the main hall banged open. They jumped apart and he could feel his face flush. 

She stared at them, hands on her hips, lips twisted into a scowl. 

“Daenerys called a war council to session and Sansa is sitting as your representative,” she said, her tone low and frustrated, “which would be fine if any of us knew what you were planning.”

Jon rubbed his face and fixed his disheveled clothes. “I’ve kept it quiet for a reason Arya, if it comes from Sansa Daenerys will reject it without consideration and likely lash out. It has to come from me.” 

“Then go to the meeting and say it,” 

He nodded, looking back at Tormund, “it’s up to you. I won’t hold it against you if you’d rather go check on the Free Folk.”

Tormund grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, “and miss you facing down the Dragon Queen? Nah,”

“He knows what you’re going to say?” Arya said, her tone edging into a playful whine, “no fair.”

Jon chuckled, ruffling her hair as he passed her, Tormund close on his heels, “come on, baby sister, Sansa will want you there.”

* * *

“I’ll fly my dragons south, my unsullied and Dothraki will return via our ships. Your northern army can take the main road, we don’t have enough ships to all go the same way.”

Jon entered the room, frowning at what he’d overheard, Arya walked on his right and Tormund was on his left. He waved Sansa and Davos back into their seats, nodding to Bran who was sitting by the fire. 

“Apologies for my tardiness,” he said, coming to stand at the war table, directly across from his aunt. “Did I hear you correctly, your grace? Were you ordering my men to the south?”

Arya circled the room to stand next to Sansa, her hand resting on Needle’s hilt. 

“You were not here,” Daenerys said, waving her hand at the table, “someone had to start to strategize. Cersei is only growing stronger the longer we hesitate.”

“Mayhaps that’s true, still I’d thank you not to presume to order my troops anywhere,” Jon kept his tone mild, his pose still, but relaxed. He didn’t set his shoulders, clench his jaw, or rest his hand on his own sword’s hilt - no matter how much his instincts urged him to. 

“They won’t fit on the ships,” Grey Worm said, leaning over the table to push the wooden pieces representing the Northmen and the Wildings to the road Daenerys had pointed out. 

Tormund stepped closer to Jon’s back, not quite touching but enough that he could feel his warmth.

“I swore an oath to remain neutral in the war for the Iron Throne, and I have no interest in breaking that agreement and getting involved in your war,” Jon said, thankful he managed to keep his voice quiet and steady. 

Sansa made a small noise, one easily heard in the ringing silence after his words, and Arya’s hand tightened on her sword. He didn’t dare look to Bran or Tormund or Davos for their reactions. 

“Excuse me?” Daenerys asked, her tone growing rigidly formal and cold, “I must have heard you wrong,” 

“You did not, I gave my word at the Dragon Pit that I would not interfere with who sat on the Iron Throne as long as the North remained independent. That has not changed.”

“You’re holding up your end of the deal when she did not hold up hers?” 

Jon shrugged, “she proved herself deceitful and I’ll offer your army food, supplies and a place to rest until you’re ready to march south. But the North is independent and it’s not my concern who sits on a southern throne.” 

In a rare, outward display of anger, Daenerys slammed her hands down on the table, “I fought for you, I lost a dragon and my oldest friend for you, and your war. And now you’re refusing to fight mine?”

“Aye, and I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. And if I were just pledging myself I’d go south with you, and take Cersei’s head for breaking her solemn oath,” Jon mirrored her position but without the violence, placing his hands deliberately and gently on the table, “But I’m a King, and I don’t just pledge myself in matters such as this. My family is here, my people are here, and we are needed here. We have been locked in war after war since my father died, it is time we begin to rebuild.” 

“Your father?” Daenerys said, and Jon's hands clenched into fists at the note of derision in her voice. He could almost see her composure failing, see her splitting at the seams. “Which father, Jon? The one who spawned you or the one who raised you?”

Sansa stood, her shoulders drawing back, taking offense at Daenerys’ raised voice, “explain what you mean or calm down, your grace. And please pay my brother the same respect he’s graciously afforded to you. He has a title, he is our King, and should be referred to as such.” 

He shut his eyes, he appreciated his sister's defense of him more than he could say, but he knew she had exacerbated the problem, had provoked Daenerys into whatever happened next.

And it was his own damn fault for not telling his sisters who he was. He’d meant to, planned to, but he’d gotten distracted and now they’d never believe he hadn’t kept it secret for some nefarious reason. They’d already suspected his alliance with Daenerys, it would be an easy jump to assume he’d done it out of a misplaced sense of family obligation. 

“You haven’t told them?” Daenerys sounded smug and a bit gleeful.

He left his eyes closed, unable to face his sisters when he knew what was coming next. 

“That their beloved father never cheated on their mother? That you aren’t their sibling, half or otherwise.”

A hand fell on his shoulder, grounding him. Tormund. 

“You didn’t tell your precious family that you’re their cousin, the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms.” 

There was a thunking sound that could only be Sansa dropping back into her chair. 

“I beg your pardon?” Sansa said, and Jon couldn’t help but open his eyes to check on her, her voice was that faint. She was slumped back in her chair, her face pale and something like hurt twisting across her face before she hid it behind a mask. 

“It’s true,” Bran said, turning his eyes away from the fire for the first time since Jon had entered the room. “Aunt Lyanna ran away with Rhaegar, she wasn’t kidnapped or raped. His marriage to Elia Martell was annulled in secret and he married her before Jon was born.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arya said, resting a hand on Sansa’s shoulder but looking at Jon. His breath caught at the look on her face, it saw her most stubborn one, the one she wore when she’d picked her hill to die on. He’d never seen her budge once that happened, “he’s our brother, it doesn’t matter how he’s related. He’s a Stark,” she looked to Daenerys, her eyes flinty, “he’s _ours_ , you can’t have him.”

Tyrion cleated his throat, “my Queen, perhaps we could return to discussing Cersei and not the King’s parentage?”

“We are discussing Cersei,” Daenerys rebuked him without looking his way, “you say your family is here, what about me? What about my brother, your father, who was killed for daring to love your mother and have you? The Baratheon, The Lannisters, The Starks. Spokes on the wheel that stole your parents from you. Help me break that wheel, nephew, join me and destroy Cersei once and for all.”

She was very charismatic when she wanted to be, Jon knew, he’d seen her with her Unsullied and Dothraki, both groups who worshiped the ground she walked on. This speech was ruined by the glint in her eyes, the twist to her lips that was too challenging and too bitter to be inspiring or convincing. 

Tormund’s hand on his shoulder tightened his warmth at his back a solid reminder of Jon’s end goal in all this. 

“I will not lead the Northmen into another war in the south that doesn’t concern them, I will not pull men from the Night's Watch who are sworn not to involve themselves in the realms of men and march them south, and I will not ask the Free Folk to follow me any further south than they already have.” 

“All I’ve done since I left my home is fight, and I’m done. My people are done.”

The room was quiet, Daenerys looked away from him, her hands trembling as she straightened her back and clenched them at her sides. Her advisors looked uneasy, glancing amongst themselves as if to see who would calm their Queen.

Jon had a feeling that if Jorah were here, this conversation would never have escalated so. He’d been a tempering influence on the Dragon Queen. 

Sansa cleared her throat, “Winterfell is yours, your grace. For as long you and your men need to recuperate - we will house and feed you. But I stand by my bother’s decision, when you do leave, you will leave without us.”

“We will give refuge to any man who is unable to continue to fight for you, should they want it, but that is all the support we can offer you.”

“A kind offer,” Tyrion interjected before Daenerys could respond, “one we’ll gladly accept. If you will not be joining our war, perhaps we should hold our war council privately, we would like to stay-“ 

“We will do so at Dragonstone,” Daenerys cut over him, “we will leave today, as soon as our men are ready.” 

She looked to Grey Worm who nodded, saluted, and left the room. 

“As for you, nephew, don’t think I’ll forget this. Once I take the throne, there’s nothing to stop me from turning my gaze North. I am here to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not the Six.”

For the first time, Jon let his hand fall to Longclaw’s hilt, wrapping his hand around it, “I think you’ll find the North a harsh place to those uninvited, I hope you see your way to leaving us be. It would be a shame to lose our alliance.” 

She raised her chin, purple eyes flashing, “we shall see,” 

At her side Tyrion rubbed his face, looking like he dearly wanted a drink. Jon was sympathetic. 

“Well if we’re leaving today, there’s much to do,” Tyrion said with a look towards Varys who nodded, an unreadable expression on his face. Jon imagined he could see the wheels turning inside his head as he, and everyone in the room, tried to take in the power plays that had just gone down. 

“If the council is over,” Jon said, “I’d like to have the room to speak with my family.”

Daenerys opened her mouth before shutting it again, unaccustomed, he was sure, to being dismissed from a room. 

“As you say, King in the North,” She said the title with a mocking lilt, “can I presume you’ll honor us by seeing our ships off at White Harbor.”

His advisors shifted almost as one at her statement because despite the phrasing it was not a request. 

“Excuse me, your grace,” Davos was the first to find his voice, “are you suggesting our King ride to White Harbor with your army and your two dragons?” He didn’t have to verbalize that Jon wouldn’t have near her level of force, even if he took men with him. He’d be at her mercy the entire ride. 

“No,” Arya and Sansa said nearly as one, and after exchanging a look Sansa was the one to continue, “he is needed here, if it pleases him, he can see you off at Winterfell’s gates.” 

Daenerys frowned, “you wish to remain allies, do you not? Despite your insisted neutrality in the war in the south. How can we be in an alliance if you do not trust that the King in the North will come to no harm while in my company?” 

She turned to Jon, “Will you speak for yourself? Or do they speak for you?” 

He didn’t rise to the bait, he didn’t even fully understand why she was trying to raise tensions further, for there could be no other reason for her insistence on him accompanying her to White Harbor. 

“It would please me to see you, your advisors and your men off at the gates of Winterfell whenever you are ready. The North, and all of Westeros owes you a debt for your assistance against the Night King and the Others,” He said, his tone polite but his stance firm. 

She arched an eyebrow, “you admit you owe a debt, but you will not help me win the Throne.” 

“No, I will not involve myself or my people in the affairs of the south. If you want to negotiate an alliance, trade deals, or something of the like once you win the Throne, you’ll find the North happy to come to the table.” He stepped to the side so he could approach her without a war table between them, he met her eyes, searching for any sign of the compassionate and kind woman he’d first met, “but we won’t bend the knee and we won’t put you on the throne.” 

He offered her his hand, “we are family, Aunt, I don’t want to be at odds with you.”

For a moment, he thought he’d managed to bank the fire burning in her. Just as he’d done back in a Dragonstone when she’d first been tempted to taking Kingslanding by fire and blood - he’d talked her down then. But that was as Jon Snow, a King she had been confident would eventually bend to her. 

Now, as a King with a stronger claim on her throne, who’d refused to bend at every opportunity, he couldn’t sway her.

She didn’t take his hand, folding hers pointedly in front of her, “We’ll leave before dark.” 

His hand fell back to his side and some part of him knew that the moment, the last chance he had to sway her, had passed and he’d failed. 

“Of course, I’ll arrange for supplies to be readied for your men.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking to her advisors and gesturing for them to follow as she stormed from the room. 

The door closed behind her sharply, and Jon sagged, his breath leaving him in one go. 

“Er,” Davos started uncertainly, “should we go?” He gestured to himself and Tormund. It took Jon a moment to remember he’d asked to have the room for him and his siblings.

He shook his head, “you may as well stay.”

“Are there more?” Sansa asked, standing and coming to Jon’s side. He watched her approach, she’d defended him in front of Daenerys and her people, but he knew enough politics to know her feelings could be different in private. 

Her hands found his arm, gripping there, “are there any more secrets you have been keeping?”

He sighed, “in my defense, I only found out about my parentage just before the Battle for Winterfell. I was planning to tell you, once Daenerys wasn’t in the castle.”

“I don’t see why anyone cares,” Tormund spoke up. He was idly adjusting the markers on the map, moving those that represented Jon’s forces back to Winterfell. “He’s still Jon, who cares who sired him?” 

“We don’t care,” Arya said, “but others will. The northern lords will now that we don’t have the Night King bearing down on us.” 

“They’re bloody wind vanes,” Sansa agreed her grip on his arm loosening into something softer. “But you have our support, that should keep them in line.” 

“Thank you for that,” Jon smiled, picking up one of her hands and disengaging to bow over it, kissing her knuckles, “but that’s not a concern.”

He looked up at her, focusing on her for the moment. “I plan to formally abdicate the Throne in the North to you, Sansa, once things have settled down and you feel ready.”

Her hand spasmed in his, her fingers tightening their grip, “I’m sorry, what?” 

He straightened up but let her keep hold of his hand, “you already handle most of the practicalities of the position and you have a better head for politics than I ever will. I was a good King for wartime when the only priority was surviving. They won’t need that much longer and you will make a fantastic peacetime Queen, Sansa. They could do no better.”

“Jon,” she breathed, her hand pulling on his until he was close enough for her to throw her arms around him. He closed his eyes, hugging her back and lifting her from the ground, “you’ll make us all proud, little sister, you will.”

She nodded into his neck, “You did, Jon. Father and Robb would be proud of you too.”

A small projectile hit his back and he knew without opening his eyes that Arya was hugging him from behind. 

Eventually, they had to untangle but his sisters didn’t move far, something he was embarrassingly grateful for. He’d hoped they’d still see him as a brother after they found out his parentage, but actually having it happen was another thing altogether.

Davos looked misty-eyed and Bran was smiling at them, serene and unsurprised by Jon’s announcement. 

He glanced over at Tormund, who was standing the farthest away, still by the table where Jon had left him. He saw Jon looking and grinned, winking at him.

It drew a laugh out of Jon, the tension from the meeting and his relief at his sisters’ acceptance leaving him feeling strung out and a bit hysterical. And incredibly grateful. 

 

* * *

“Okay,” Jon said, “that could have gone worse. That almost went well,” he squeezed Tormund’s elbow, to comfort who he didn’t know. 

“Nothing was ‘well’ if you were watching the Dragon Queen.” 

“No, that’s true, but she’ll be in the south soon and we can relax a bit.” 

“You don’t sound confident in that,”

“No,” Jon said, propping his elbows upon the railing overlooking the courtyard. Below them, Sansa and Missandei were organizing a wagon of supplies. “I’m not confident at all. But, look, I can’t do anything about that at the moment.” 

Tormund leaned next to him, bumping shoulders with him, “so what can we do?”

“Besides pray she has a change in heart or is content with six kingdoms?” He shrugged, “rebuild as much as we can, get as ready as we can. Who knows, maybe she and Cersei will take each other out.”

Tormund scoffed, “some other southern upstart would just take their place, I’ve seen enough of your politics to know that. We’ll never get to go back North at this rate.”

“I won’t fight their battles forever,” Jon said, “the south won’t have an easy time fighting their way to us, even if Daenerys comes with dragons. Look, there’s no sense in worrying about it now,”

Tormund looked unconvinced, “Your sister seems happy to inherit the throne,” he said, “will she still be so if you abdicate while things are tense in the south?” 

He sighed, putting more weight on his elbows, shoulders sagging. “I don’t have any answers, Tormund I wish I did. I want to take the Free Folk North of the Wall with you, you know I do, but I can’t leave my sisters and brother undefended.” 

“Your siblings will always be at risk of some threat, you will end up fighting their wars forever.”

Tormund stepped back, moving away from the railing and away from Jon. 

He could only study his hands, feeling torn in two directions. His heart wanted to go back North of the Wall with Tormund, the only place where he’d ever felt in his bones that he belonged. But he loved his siblings too, and with their parents gone, Robb gone, he felt they were his responsibility. If he left and something happened to them... 

“Is that it then?” He asked just as Tormund reached the stairs leading down to the courtyard, “is this where your faith in me ends?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tormund hesitate, his foot suspended between one step and the next. 

“I have my own family to think about,” Tormund said finally, “my daughters belong in the True North, as do I. You do too, you don’t belong here fighting in wars you don’t believe in.”

Sometimes Jon forgot Tormund was a father, he knew so little of his daughters other than that they were being raised by their shield-maiden mother. 

“I understand,” he said, standing up and clasping his hands behind his back, where they could shake and no one could see, “is this where I lose you then?”

Tormund set his foot down with a thud, twisting to stomp back towards him, “Others take you, you fool crow.” 

He got up into Jon's face, gripping his shoulders and giving him a shake, “this is a fight, Jon. This morning after bathing? That was a misunderstanding. These things are going to happen, they’re not the end of us or of the world. Not everything is life or death.” 

Jon felt lightheaded, shaky on his own feet.

“Learn how to have a fight. Stick with me, my pretty, foolish, crow and we’ll have plenty of them.”

Jon reached up and gripped Tormund’s hands, holding them there as he stepped them backward and off to the side where there was an alcove. Once they were hidden from view and he leaned up and kissed him, he was reassured in a way words couldn’t have managed when Tormund kissed him back. 

He pulled back, tilting their foreheads together. “I don’t how to to do this,” he confessed, “Every fight I had with Ygritte was life or death, my people or hers.”

He nudged his forehead against Tormund’s, “you’ll have to be patient with me.” 

“Aye,” Tormund said, “I’m beginning to see that.”

They stood there for a moment, and then Tormund’s hands slipped from his shoulders down to his waist, “say, little crow, do you know what the best part of fighting is?”

Jon moves closer, one hand moving to grip the back of Tormund’s neck while the other moved behind him to land on his lower back. “This one, I think I know,”

Someone cleared their throat and Jon groaned, stepping back to see who had found them. 

Davos stood there, cheeks pink and flustered, “ah apologies, your grace but you're needed below. Queen Daenerys requested you walk her to the dragons and see her off there.” 

He supposed he should have known he wouldn’t be able to just see her off at the gates, it wasn’t like she was going off on horseback. 

Tormund’s hands hadn’t left his waist and they tightened there until the point of pain. Him, Daenerys and her two dragons. If the situation were reversed he’d be holding Tormund that hard too. 

“I’ll be right there,” he said after a moment, resignation pulling his shoulders back and a sense of foreboding licking down his spine.

He tried to move away but Tormund held him in place. He raised an eyebrow. 

“Is that a good idea?” Tormund asked, looking to Davos for his opinion, “no one would be able to stop her burning you alive.”

“She’d only make a martyr of me, she knows my sisters wouldn’t take that lying down.”

“And you trust she’ll care? She has dragons.”

Jon gripped Tormund’s hands, gently removing them from his waist and squeezing them, “I do, she’s not so far gone that she’ll risk fighting a war on each front. Trust me Tormund.”

“Take some men with you,” a Davos interjected, “maybe an audience will ensure she won’t try anything.” 

Jon considered the suggestion, “speak to my sister and organize a formal riding party with volunteers. We’ll give her a formal escort to her dragons.”

Davos looked relieved, “I will do so at once.” He said as he moved off, his mind already on the task. Jon leaned forward and into a Tormund, laying his forehead on his shoulder, lifting it and letting it fall again with a thud. And again. 

“When will it end?” 

Tormund chuckled grabbing his head before he could drop it on his shoulder again, “you’ll see her off, and speak with Sansa about abdicating, and then we can both wash our hands of all this nonsense.” 

 

* * *

Sansa had outdone herself with the formal escort. She and Arya were both mounted on horses as were several of their Northern bannerman who hadn’t departed for their homes yet. It had turned into an honor guard Daenerys couldn’t refuse without looking ungrateful. 

Jon mounted his own horse, watching as Daenerys did the same, her face set in a cold mask he couldn’t read. 

The two of them led the way out of the gates, the group behind them eerily silent. 

He kept his eyes on their destination, the dragons hard to miss even from a distance. 

“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come,” Jon said, quiet enough it carried only to Daenerys, “truly, I do.”

She stiffened, “you could still change your mind, fly south with me and order your men to follow. You’re as much a dragon as I am, nephew, let’s take our throne. Together.”

“I’m not a dragon, I’m not a Stark, I’m a Snow and I know where I belong. it isn’t in the south.”

“I see, I hope you don’t come to regret this choice.”

They had reached the dragons and drew up a healthy distance from them. Sansa and Arya came to a stop off to his left, both eyeing the dragons warily.

Jon kept his eyes on the truly dangerous one. Daenerys had dismounted and was looking at him expectantly. 

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to Rhaegal? You were his rider, for a time.” She looked at him, her eyebrows raised in challenge. 

He looked away from her to the smaller of the two dragons. He had felt a surface connection to the dragon, something similar to the bond he had with Ghost, one that given time may have grown to be as deep and unending. 

He supposed he’d never know, now. 

He swung his leg over and dropped from the saddle.

“Jon,” Sansa whispered in fear, but he forced himself not to look back at her. 

He felt Daenerys’ eyes on him as he approached Rhaegal, this was some kind of test, but he couldn’t see how.

When he was close Rhaegal lowered his head to his height, as he’d done every time Jon had gotten close. He made a rumbling noise deep in his throat, similar to a cat’s purr when he reached out to rub the bridge of his snout, the dragon's scales warm beneath his hand.

“See?” Daenerys stepped up behind him, her hand reaching out to stroke Rhaegal’s cheek, “the dragons know what you are. Will you continue to deny it?”

Jon closed his eyes, lingering one more moment, before stepping back and away. Rhaegal reared up with a cry and the sound tugged at Jon’s heart. He wondered just how much the dragon understood, whether he knew what had just happened. Whether he sensed Jon’s rejection, no matter how out of his hands it was.

He smiled sadly at the beautiful beast before turning away and passing Daenerys without a word. Her gaze on his back was just as heavy as before, and he knew he’d failed in her eyes.

But not in his sisters’ eyes, he offered them each a smile, their faces painted with relief, as he joined them and remounted his horse. One of the lords handed him the reins for Daenerys’ riderless horse. 

“We’ll be seeing each other again, King in the North,” Daenerys said as she climbed onto Drogon’s back, 

“I don’t doubt it,” he answered, lifting his hand in a wave as she and her dragons took off. 

They lingered there for a moment, watching her dragons fly over to join the Unsullied and Dothraki who had already begun processing out of Winterfell. 

“That could have gone worse,” he said, wry, “she could have burned us all alive.”

Sansa leaned over and swatted his shoulder, “Not funny, Jon.”

“It was a little funny,” Arya chimed in, grinning at them both, dimples flashing. 

He shook his head, turning his horse towards Winterfell, the mood of the group much lighter as they rode back.

* * *

 

 


	2. Now it Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know there's a character limit for chapters? I didn't! 
> 
> Part two turned out so long I had to split it into two chapters. Since it's already written, I went ahead and posted both.

* * *

The banging on his door had him waking with a gasp, his heart racing. He lay there, tense, and listened. He wasn’t the only one awake - neither he nor Tormund were heavy sleepers, not with the lives they led. And considering those lives, Jon couldn’t be sure he hadn’t dreamt the banging and woke them both to escape it.

The Dragon Queen and her armies were gone and the last of his bannermen were readying to return home at first light - who could need him at this hour?

The banging happened again and he sighed. He rolled over and struggled to pull on his pants from the day before. Tormund rolled with him, but not to help. Instead, he wound his arms around Jon from behind and burrowed into his back.

“Ignore it, if it were important it would be your sisters and they would have broken in already,” Tormund said, his breath warm against his bare back.

Jon relaxed back into him, his eyes closing as the banging stopped. Maybe Tormund was right and whoever it was had given up and decided to come back later.

“Your grace? I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s about Arya.” That was Gendry’s voice.

Tormund sighed but let go of Jon.

He stood up and looked back to see Tormund wrapping himself in blankets and burrowing into the pillows.

“I see how it is,” he grumbled as he moved to the door.

He opened it to see Gendry standing there, shoulders heaving as he breathed heavily.

Gendry stumbled slightly and Jon reached out to steady him, “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Gendry said between breaths, “I ran all the way from the outer gates. Give me a moment.”

Jon glanced back, Tormund seemed determined to go back to sleep but Ghost was awake and watching from the foot of the bed.

He jerked his head and Ghost eased off the bed, coming to join him. Jon moved into the hallway just long enough to prop Gendry up against a wall.

“Stay with him while I get dressed,” he told Ghost, who slipped by him to stand next to Gendry - more than big enough to hold up the man if necessary.

Jon stroked his head in thanks before slipping back into the room and closing the door. He leaned his back against it and had to resist the palpable urge to crawl back in bed with Tormund and pretend he had dreamed the whole thing. But Gendry had said it was about Arya and from what he knew of the other man - he wasn’t given to false panics.

Tormund opened one eye to look at him, “your duty has not ended, then?”

He ignored that comment as it spurred him to finish dressing out of a spat of petty spite.

Once done, he sat on Tormund’s side of the bed. The man had done his level best to burrow into the bedding until he couldn’t be seen except for his fiery hair.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be joining us then?” He asked, his hand reaching out to run through Tormund’s hair, “some of the servants will be up by now, fixing the morning meal. We could eat, take Ghost to stretch his legs after.”

Tormund lifted his head from the pillows, “just the three of us?”

“Aye,” Jon leaned closer, “just you, me and Ghost. And maybe some horses so that we can keep up with him if he feels up to really running.” With each word he leaned a bit closer to Tormund, until he was whispering in his ear, “I’ll deal with whatever Gendry has to say and then we can escape for a day, just us,” Tormund turned towards him, and they were kissing. Jon braced his weight on one hand while the other wound around the back of Tormund’s neck, pulling him up and closer.

“I’ll go now, you get dressed and meet us in the hall,” Jon broke the kiss and untangled himself from Tormund. He pressed one last kiss to his lips, “don’t take too long.”

Tormund grumbled a bit but nodded.

He returned to the hall to find a more composed Gendry standing under his own power.

Jon held up a hand, “whatever it is, it can wait till we’re in the Hall. Sansa and Bran may still be sleeping.”

For a moment he thought Gendry would speak despite his words but in the end, he nodded briskly and strode past Jon, leading the way.

Jon exchanged an amused look with Ghost. His people were fortunate he wasn’t the kind of leader who would take offense to that. He couldn’t imagine Daenerys, or Cersei for that matter, reacting well to one of their people treating them in that manner.

They followed close on Gendry’s heels, close enough that Jon almost ran into him when Gendry stuttered to a stop inside the doorway. “Ah, apologies milady,”

“It’s fine, come join me. You too, Jon,” Sansa said and Jon slid out from behind Gendry to make his way to his sister.

He paused behind her, squeezing her shoulders and dropping a kiss to the top of her head before taking his seat at the middle of the high table.

Sansa smiled at him and reached for a spare cup and the kettle in the middle of the table, pouring him a cup of tea.

“I don’t usually see anyone this early,” she remarked, glancing first at him and then Gendry who was hovering uncertainly in front of the high table, “pull up a chair, Gendry, we don’t stand on ceremony when we don’t have royal visitors.”

“Yes, milady,” He said, hastening to do as she asked.

Jon sipped his tea, one hand absently moving to pet Ghost as his wolf came to sit between him and Sansa.

“Now,” He said, “what’s this about Arya?”

Gendry flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah you see, after you saw off the Dragon Queen, Arya came to find me. And I... I may have rushed things a bit and proposed marriage to her.”

He and Sansa exchanged a look. They’d both noticed Arya’s affection for the newly legitimized Baratheon. She rarely showed any emotion these days, especially around people who weren’t her siblings. So the fact that she’d talked to Gendry, had delighted in teasing him? Had told them a lot about how Arya felt.

“Should I start planning a wedding?” Sansa asked, folding her hands on the table, “I suppose you have no one to stitch a wedding cloak for you to give to her, I could do that, if you like. Or we could reverse it and have Arya give you a Stark cloak.”

Jon rested a hand over hers before she could get too far ahead of herself. Something about the way Gendry had phrased it told him they wouldn’t be hearing wedding bells just yet.

“Ah, unfortunately, she didn’t say yes,” Gendry said, looking down at the table, “said she had something she had to do before she could do anything else. We still...” he trailed off with an awkward cough, probably remembering he was speaking to Arya’s older siblings. Siblings who would not want to hear the gory details.

“Anyways,” He said, “when I woke up this morning she was gone. I went to find her and saw her riding out of Winterfell with the Hound.”

Sansa frowned, leaning back in her chair, “they’re going to Kingslanding then.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” Gendry said, looking down at his hands with a sigh.

Jon looked between the two, “what am I missing?”

“The Hound has gone to kill his brother,” Sansa told him, reaching for her tea and cradling it to her chest, leaning her face over the fading steam, “there’s a lot of complicated history there.”

“And Arya is after Cersei,” Gendry said, “she blames her for what happened to your father. At one point she had a whole list of people she wanted to kill for it.”

Jon downed the rest of his tea and wished it was something stronger. He reached for the kettle only to find it empty.

“There’s a second over the fire,” Sansa said.

He turned to grab it, wincing at the over-warm handle. But he could tell this conversation would require multiple cups of tea. After refilling his cup he downed half of it, “so Arya is going to Kingslanding, where Daenerys and Cersei are about to wage open war.”

Gendry nodded, his face drawn and pale. He was scared for Arya, Jon knew, they’d all seen what kind of damage dragons could do.

“She can take care of herself,” Sansa said, “and when she can’t, the Hound will do it for her.”

Jon shook his head, “this is different,” he said, “she’s going into what is about to be a war zone, one where the dragons won’t be focusing on the Army of the Dead. At best, the fire will be focused on the Keep, where Cersei and thus Arya will be. Cersei and Daenerys are going to be throwing everything they have at each other. She could be pinned beneath a fallen building or get caught up in dragon fire before she could even draw her blade.”

He set his cup down, “still, there’s not much we can do. Her and the Hound must be traveling at a brutal pace to attempt to get to Cersei and the Mountain before Daenerys. They’ve got a least an hours head start and I don’t see either agreeing to turn around even if we caught up to them,”

Sansa just sat there, glaring at him over her cooling tea. She didn’t say anything but she didn’t look away from him either. Then she drained her tea and stood up, “thanks for those comforting words, brother. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go ask the servants to begin bringing up the food.”

He caught her hand before she could move away, “it’s Arya, Sansa. She killed the Night King, if anyone can survive what’s about to come, it’s her.”

She squeezed his hand and then turned to leave.

“Nothing is ever boring around you Starks, is it?” Gendry observed.

Jon gave a short laugh, watching Sansa stride to the door.

“Oh, sorry,” Tormund said as they almost ran into each other as they passed through.

“No food yet?” He asked, settling in the seat on Jon’s far side.

“Sansa is going to request it be brought up now, there’s tea if you want it.”

“No ale or wine?”

“Not this early, no, it’s tea or water.”

“I’ll stick to just food, thanks.”

Gendry laughed at them.

* * *

“Hey, want to hear a story about my girls?”

“Yes?”

“So when they were real little, their ma, Kendri, left them with me while she went hunting. Munda is my oldest, she’s about ten now and my youngest is Dyna, she’s eight. At the time they were little ankle-biters.”

Jon blinked as he tried to assimilate the names and ages.

“They were always getting into trouble at that age, I couldn’t take my eyes off them for a second. I’m sure your younger siblings went through that stage?”

“That they did,” Jon said.

“Right, so we were camping by the caves, you remember, the ones with the hot springs. Munda decided they wanted to go bathe, I, being a sucker for their big puppy eyes, agreed to take them. I only took my eyes off them for a second,” He shook his head, laughing loudly. His horse pranced beneath him, startled by the sound. “They’d scampered off, caused a right panic. We finally found them in the back most cave, drenched and delighted that they’d spent the day chasing water spirits.”

“Water spirits?” Jon asked - he’d seen too many creatures he hadn’t believed were real to dismiss the idea they’d been chasing actual spirits.

Tormund waved his hand, “not real ones, not that I saw anyway. My two hellions couldn’t understand why we’d all been panicking, they thought it was great fun.”

“When they realized they’d been found, they started running from us, and I mean flat out running. I was terrified one of them would slip and crack open their silly little head. They were little things, but fast fucking things, and they were screaming bloody murder that we were there to kill their water spirits. “Not the spirits, da, not the spirits!’”

Tormund’s laugh was louder than his, and Jon quieted, watching. Tormund had his head thrown back in his delight, the early morning sunlight painting his face gold. It was easy to forget how good looking he was, how easily he took Jon’s breath away when he was trying the least. There was something compelling about him, something that put people at ease. He’d thawed the ice around Jon and then he’d watched his sisters warm to Tormund quicker than he’d seen them do with just about anyone.

“Definitely related to you then,” Jon said with a grin, reaching over from his own horse to grip Tormund’s elbow, drawing them and their horses to a stop. Ghost looked back at them, his tongue lolling out of his mouth in a canine grin. “Can I ask why you’re telling me of them, now? You’ve kept them to yourself all this time.”

“I’m telling you,” Tormund said, still chuckling, “because they’re near Winterfell with their ma, camping with the spear-wives and warrior women. I’d like you to meet them.”

“Yes,” Jon murmured, his lips numb.

“They’re still little hellions but they’ll like you. They already think you’re some kind of god - wait, yes?” Tormund stuttered to a stop mid-spiel.

Jon grinned and slid his hand from Tormund’s elbow to his waist. “I’d love to meet them.” Tormund leaned over, one hand finding the back of Jon's neck while the other fell to his hip. He closed his eyes at the touch, how it burned and comforted and made him feel alive. Being touched by Tormund always felt like that, in a way no one else’s touch did. As if everyone else just brushed the surface of him but Tormund could reach him in the depths of his bones.

“Are you gonna kiss me or are you meditating?” Tormund teased. Jon opened his eyes, leaning over and taking his other hand off his horse to cup Tormund's face. He felt Tormund’s breath stutter as he closed the last bit of distance and kissed him.

It was a gentle kiss, barely more than a press of their lips, but it had Jon swaying in the saddle in an attempt to get closer. Tormund tugged him over, his hands on his lower back now, and the kiss changed into something more intense. Jon leaned into it, into his lover’s soft mouth.

Their knees bumped together as their horses pranced beneath them, jarring them out of the kiss.

Jon laughed, “maybe we should resume this when we’re not on horseback.”

“Aye, and your wolf is getting impatient.”

He looked and sure enough, Ghost had circled back to sit in front of their horses. Watching them with eyes that were far too knowing for Jon's comfort.

“Well, I suppose it’s about time we put you through your paces, huh boy?” Jon picked up his horse’s reigns and nudged him forward.

The three of them raced across the fields outside Winterfell, the sun above them and the wind at their backs.

* * *

They were taking a break and eating the lunch Sansa had packed them when Ghost jolted to his feet, his good ear twitching back and forth as he listened to something they couldn’t hear. Jon glanced at Tormund and they both rose to their feet, hands on their blades.

The air around them stirred, the trees bowing over from the force of it. Jon froze, his eyes closing as the wind whipped around him.

“Little crow?”

Tormund’s voice faded away and he opened his eyes to see clouds, and a familiar castle below him. Winterfell. But he banked away, instead heading towards the woods, towards him. Jon’s eyes snapped open and he stumbled, Tormund steadying him.

“You know, now would be a good time to tell me I’m seeing things.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Jon said, staring at the dragon setting down in the clearing.

“I don’t see the beastie’s mother or brother, so that’s something,” Tormund said, walking forward to stand beside Ghost. Jon followed but didn’t stop with them, striding out towards Rhaegal.

The Dragon already had his head lowered for pets, his eyes on Jon as he moved ever closer. He frowned, catching sight of a long red ribbon tied to one of the ridges on his back and whipping in the wind. “Hullo boy, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he said as he reached him, rubbing his snout. Rhaegal pressed up into his hands, preening under the attention. His uninjured wing arced towards the ground in an invitation Jon was beginning to get used to receiving.

With one last pat, he climbed up the wing and onto Rhaegal’s back. Once there he could see that the red ribbon was holding a scroll in place, with some trepidation he untied it and unrolled it.

_Nephew,_

_It seems you have stolen my dragon's loyalty. Rhaegal refused to fly farther than White Harbor. With a heavy heart, I allowed him to fly back to you._

_For now, I’m entrusting my son to your care. Perhaps this is a sign we won’t be at odds next we see each other._

_If any harm comes to him, you will face my wrath and Drogon’s._

_Your Aunt,_

_Daenerys_

He rolled the scroll back up, deep in thought. His bond with Rhaegal must have forged itself stronger than he’d first thought if Rhaegal had disobeyed Daenerys to fly back to him.

And Daenerys hadn’t missed a chance to remind him of their family ties, to drive that particular knife a bit deeper.

“Are you going flying or coming back down?” Tormund shouted up at him. He glanced over to see that he and Ghost had dared to venture closer. In fact, Ghost was almost nose to nose with Rhaegal, sniffing him.

Heart in his throat, Jon slid down off Rhaegal’s back and scrambled around. No matter how intelligent, or how bonded to their rider, dragons were still dragons. There was no guarantee Rhaegal would see Ghost as anything other than a tasty meal.

He ran around Rhaegal’s shoulder only to skid to a stop.

Rhaegal was lying fully on the ground now, his chin in the grass so that he was eye level with Ghost.

The two were staring at each other, both taking deep breaths of the other’s scent.

“Freaky ain’t it?”

Jon nodded, watching as the tableau took an even weirder turn. Ghost closed the last bit of distance between them and licked the tip of Rhaegal’s snout.

“Others take me,” Tormund muttered, “your mutt’s as mad as you are.”

Jon squeezed his arm and moved past, crouching down next to them both. One hand stroking each, “Sansa is never going to believe this one.”

Behind him, Tormund laughed himself sick.

* * *

“We’re just going for a ride, Sansa, you said. It’ll be fine, Sansa, you said. This is not fine, Jon.”

He and Tormund both winced, shuffling in front of her.

“Why in seven hells are we playing host to a dragon again?” She asked hands on her hips.

Jon considered his words carefully. “The short version? Rhaegal missed me,” and that was what he came up with, all the time he’d put into learning how to speak politics and in the face of his sister’s ire that was the best he could do. Even Ghost, lounging by the fireplace, seemed to be laughing at him.

“Maybe try the long version,” Tormund muttered, always trying to help, or rather, further instigate trouble.

Jon glared at him.

“Yes, Jon,” Sansa said, “let’s try the long version.”

He sighed but reached into his cloak for the scroll, handing it to her. “It’s like I’m not a king at all,”

Sansa smiled at him, “I’m your heir apparent, not to mention your beloved sister, I’ll talk to you however I like.”

“That you will,” Jon said, any real irritation leaving him as she affirmed their status as siblings. Judging by the smug slant of her smile, she’d done it on purpose.

While she read the note Tormund shifted closer, pressing into Jon’s side. “Don’t we have something to resume now that we’re not on horseback?” he whispered in his ear.

He turned his head, their faces brushing together. Close enough to share breath, close enough to lean forward and -

“Jon,” Sansa said, “focus please.”

With effort, he tore his eyes from Tormund’s.

“This,” she waved the scroll, “is not much more descriptive than your version.”

He shrugged, “it’s all I know.”

She sat down in her chair by the war table, Ghost rose to his feet and moved to sit beside her, his head in her lap. The traitor. “we’ll have to feed him regularly, I don’t want to risk him going after people because he’s hungry.”

“I think I can convince him that people aren’t food, but until then keeping him well-fed is the best idea.”

She looked up at them, some of her annoyance easing into amusement. “Oh, go on then. He seems settled enough at the moment and you’re useless to me like this.”

Jon moved over to her, tilting her face up and kissing her forehead, “I knew you were my favorite sister for a reason.”

“I bet you say that to Arya, too,”

He grinned at her as he backed him and Tormund from the room, “that’s a secret I’ll never tell.”

Her laughter chased them into the hall.

Once the door was closed Jon grabbed Tormund’s shoulders and slammed him up against the wall.

Tormund grunted, “well, either you’re really upset I distracted you in front of your sister or you’re really really not.”

“Can't it be both?” Jon asked before kissing him. He kept it gentle, his hands-on Tormund’s face. Tormund’s arms wrapped around him, tugging him closer until it wasn’t gentle at all.

“You really like hallways, huh?” Tormund asked.

“You started it, both times actually,” Jon said, moving to mouth at Tormund’s neck, “my rooms not far though.”

“That impatient to get me alone?”

“No, but I do want to get you naked.”

He lifted his head and they were kissing again, his hands migrating down to grip Tormund’s ass and squeeze. Tormund tugged on his hair, breaking the kiss.

“What are we waiting for then, my pretty crow?” Tormund’s voice was lower, gruffer than usual. It had something hot twisting in Jon’s gut.

He wrapped his hand in the front of Tormund’s furs and tugged him from the wall. Backing up and leading him to his rooms, a feat he managed because he knew Winterfell well enough to walk it blind and still find his way.

Once he reached his door he fumbled blindly behind him for the handle, opening and tumbling through as Tormund chose then to tackle him. Thankfully, Tormund had enough presence of mind to ensure they landed on the bed instead of the floor.

Tormund was kissing him, rougher, more urgently, than in the hallway. He was kissing back, his hands fumbling to undo the fastens on Tormund”s coat. “We’ve got to get better at the undressing bit,” he whispered.

“I think we do fine,” Tormund said, pulling away to take off his coat and then his shirt. Jon hurried to do the same, thankful he’d taken off his cloak and left it in the war room.

He was halfway done getting his shirt unfastened when Tormund was leaning down to kiss him again. “Pretty, pretty crow, it’s unfair how pretty you are.” He whispered against his lips, “I want to see you naked, why are you still clothed?”

“You’re the one who interrupted me,” he whispered back, nipping at Tormund’s bottom lip, “I told you, we’re bad at this bit.”

Jon got his hands between them, fumbling with the last of the fastens. Tormund’s hands had found his pants and were beginning to tug them down. He was also nuzzling at Jon’s neck, which was thoroughly distracting. And that was their problem wasn’t it? They kept getting caught up in each other.

Tormund gave up on getting his pants off, wrapping a hand around Jon’s cock, and squeezing instead.

“Oh gods,” Jon gasped, bucking into him. “Tormund, keep that up and this... will be over quickly. Just -“ he pushed Tormund off him, making quick work of getting out of the rest of his clothes, beside him Tormund did the same.

He rolled on top of Tormund, straddling him, “not that fumbling to get undressed wasn’t fun, but I like this bit better.” He ground their hips together pointedly, “come on, Tormund I need you, I -“ he broke off with a gasp as Tormund gripped his hips and thrust up against him.

“Gods,” he bit his lip, as he rode him, his hips moving in time with Tormund’s. Whose hands had shifted from his hips to his ass and were gripping him there. A finger brushed his hole and he threw his head back, bearing down against it.

Tormund’s other hand found his cock again and between the two sensations, Jon fell apart at the seams, collapsing across Tormund in a heap as he panted.

He would never get tired of this, Jon thought, content to lie there as Tormund made small thrusting movements against him, finding his own release and tumbling after him with a groan that didn’t sound entirely human.

Their arms wound around each other again, both of them slick with sweat and other fluids, but neither making a move to untangle. “We could have gone farther, fucked properly, I mean,” Jon said after they’d both had a moment to catch their breaths.

“No, not this time. We were both too frantic, too keyed up,” Tormund said, pressing a kiss to Jon’s head, “I would have hurt you, and that’s one thing I won’t do, that I don’t want to do. Please don’t ask me to.”

“Okay,” Jon said, twisting to kiss Tormund, “okay, I understand.”

They laid there, lazily trading kisses and touches for a long time. It was the longest they’d ever kissed, just kissed for the sake of it. It wasn’t the type of thing Jon expected to enjoy, kissing just to kiss, but he did.

“We could probably still make it to dinner,” Jon said later, his head resting on Tormund’s chest. “If we bathed and got dressed now.”

Tormund was playing with his hair, his fingers slowly working their way through his curls and rubbing at his scalp. “Mm,” was all he said and Jon smiled.

“We could eat with the Free Folk,” Jon said, “I could meet Munda and Dyna.”

Tormund lifted his head a bit to squint at him, “what? Now?”

“You wanted me to meet them - surely they eat dinner,” Jon shifted to face him, propping his chin on his chest. “Unless you changed your mind?”

“No,” Tormund stretched beneath him, “of course I didn’t change my mind. We can eat dinner with them if you like. We should bring some of that Dornish wine, bribe their ma into liking you.”

“Okay,” Jon said, laying his head back down. Neither of them made a move to get up, “we really should bathe first.”

The hand in his hair paused and then resumed running through his curls. He shouldn’t like being pet so much, he should protest it. No matter how bonded he was to a wolf, and now a dragon, it didn’t mean he could be pet into submission the way they could be. He would object in a moment he told himself. “Aye, we should,” Tormund said.

Neither of them moved.

“You move first,” Tormund said finally.

“Mm,” Jon thought of before, when Tormund had been telling him of his daughters. He’d only made passing mention of their mother, her name and little else. He knew they weren’t together anymore, but they did have two children between them, children Tormund clearly loved above all else.

He rolled over onto his elbows to loom over Tormund, studying him, the soft lines on his face, the faint scars tucked here and there.

“Do you still love her? Their ma, I mean,” He asked before he could stop himself, wincing at how unsure it made him sound. How insecure he’d revealed himself to be.

Tormund was here, in his bed, and had given him no reason to doubt him. And still, Jon had trouble trusting it. Trusting he deserved it.

“Aye,” Tormund said, his voice quiet, his hands leaving Jon's hair to fold behind his own head, the picture of ease, “but that’s not the question you really want to be asking of me.”

Jon clenched his jaw but forced the words out, “do you love me? Could you be content with me? With taking no one else to bed?” He asked. He’d changed a lot since going to the Wall, since meeting the Wildings, since first Ygritte and then Tormund. But he didn’t think he’d changed so much that he could share his lover with another, not even the mother of his children.

“Yes, to all of it.”

Jon lost his balance and almost collapsed back onto Tormund, catching himself on his elbows at the last second. “Just like that?”

“You asked, little crow, and I answered. Do I need to swear an oath or say vows to prove it to you?”

Jon stared down at him, feeling as if there was a calvary charging around him again to meet the forces swarming against him. He was as wrong-footed and surprised as he'd been in that battle. Tormund looked back, unperturbed and calm as ever.

“I... that is... no oaths or vows,” Jon stammered, he sighed and lowered his weight back onto Tormund who’s arms wrapped back around him. He nudged Tormund’s face with his, “I love you too,” he whispered.

Tormund’s laugh was low and fondly rueful, and quite possibly Jon’s favorite sound. “I know, my pretty crow, you were the one who needed to catch up.”

“Well, better late than never?”

“Aye,” Tormund’s fingers were tracing circles on his back and he crowded closer, his nose bumping against Tormund’s. He lay there contemplating whether they would move in time to make it to dinner without being terribly late.

“You still have to move first,” Tormund said and he smiled.

* * *

Now that there wasn’t a reason to cram everyone inside Winterfell’s walls the remaining Free Folk had taken to camping in the woods and fields nearby. The sky was darkening now, and Jon could make out several campfires in the distance. The area looked different at night, more foreboding, too reminiscent of the Long Night for his comfort. He slowed to a stop as they approached the fire closest to Winterfell, the one Tormund had been leading them to.

Tormund kept going but Ghost stopped with him, leaning his weight into his side.

They must have been in sight of the group around the fire, because one small figure jumped to their feet and ran full tilt at Tormund, slamming into him.

“Munda!” He heard him shout, “what have I told you about running at any man who’s been kissed by fire?” Jon wanted to laugh at it, at the playful aggrieved dad in Tormund’s voice, but nerves were getting their grip on him, a vice forming around his throat.

His hand fell to Ghost’s head, scratching behind his good ear as he watched father and daughter reunite.

“I knew it was you, da!” little Munda was protesting, “and even if I didn’t, what other free man travels with a Crow King and a dire wolf?” her voice was filled with the imperiousness of youth, of a child who hadn’t yet learned the cost of mistakes.

Jon remembered being that age, being sure he was close enough to grown that he should be treated that way. Now that he was a man full-grown, tried and tested in battle, he could look back and see how much of a child he’d still been. He hoped Tormund’s daughters got to remind children longer than he and his siblings had.

“Aye, I’ll give you that one,” Tormund said, shifting Munda so she was settled on his hip. Strictly speaking, she looked too big for that but Jon wasn’t surprised that Tormund carried her there anyway.

“Ma’s showing Dyna how to skin a rabbit, she let me go so I could bring you to our fire,” Munda said, turning to look over Tormund’s shoulder, straight at him.

He swallowed his nerves and walked closer, Ghost keeping pace with him.

“Do I have to call you king or some other fancy title?” She twisted around to see him once he was standing next to her and Tormund.

He smiled, “no, you can call me Jon.”

“My name’s Munda,” she said with a nod. She began wiggling until Tormund set her down, keeping his hands on her shoulders as she tried to move forward.

She scowled up at him, and he frowned back at her.

“Ask first, I know you have better survival instincts than you’re showing.”

She turned back to Jon, pointing at Ghost, “can I pet him?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Jon crouched down between Ghost and Munda, “offer your hand like this, and he’ll sniff your fingers. If he likes you and wants you to pet him, then he’ll lick you, or nudge at your hand.”

Her aforementioned survival instincts must have finally kicked in as she mimicked Jon’s hand but didn’t move it closer to Ghost. Jon glanced up, getting a nod from Tormund. He shifted so he was behind Munda and reached his arm beside and past her’s, urging Ghost closer.

The wolf moved slowly, pausing to lick Jon’s hand before moving to sniff Munda’s. She shrank back into Jon but didn’t pull her hand back.

Ghost licked her hand first and sat, then laid down. Laying, his head was just below Munda’s and sure enough, she relaxed once he wasn’t looming over her.

“Go on, you can pet him,” Jon whispered, nudging her a bit closer. She looked back at him unsure, and for a second it was her father looking back at him. She had his fiery hair and blue eyes - if she were a boy she could have been his miniature.

He smiled at her, reaching over to take her hand and place it on Ghost’s head, “he likes to be stroked here, and if you really want him to like you, scratch behind his good ear.”

“No fair!” A second girl’s voice yelled, “I want to pet the wolf too!”

“And that would be Dyna,” Tormund sighed, “we should probably move this to the campfire.”

Jon glanced down at Munda and Ghost and had an idea. He had his pride but he also believed in using the resources available to him. He wasn’t above using Ghost to get Tormund’s daughters to like him.

He leaned forward, “Hey Munda, want to do something really fun?”

“Yes?”

He slid his hands under her arms, picking her up and swinging her onto Ghost's back in one swift movement, holding her in place as the wolf slowly stood up.

She shrieked in delight, leaning forward to hug around his neck as he walked forward.

“If any other man tried that with any other wolf, I’d have his head,” Tormund warned as he came to walk beside him. Jon kept one hand on Munda’s back, ready to steady her if she started to slip. He didn’t expect to be needed though, Ghost was walking with deliberate steps, careful not to jolt his rider.

“I may still have his head,” A woman said as she stood up from where she’d been crouching by the fire, “you won’t be putting Dyna up there.”

She was tall, almost of a height with Tormund, and blonde. Just like the younger girl she was holding back from running at Ghost and her sister. She could only be the girls’ mother.

“She’s fine,” Tormund said, “Ghost wouldn’t hurt her or any child for that matter,” he reached into his coat and pulled out the bottle of wine he’d stashed there. “We brought wine, and I’d be pleased if you welcomed us to your fire in exchange.”

There was a strange formal lilt to Tormund’s words, some Free Folk custom, perhaps, that Jon didn’t know.

She looked between him, Tormund, and Ghost and sighed, “you and yours are always welcome at my fire, Tormund,” she accepted the wine and caught his hand before he could pull away, “even when you’re more trouble than your worth.”

* * *

Dinner was pleasant and enjoyable and completely uneventful until it wasn’t.

“The Dornish make the best wine in the South,” Jon said, watching as Kendri took a swig from the bottle. “It may be sweeter than you're used to, but Tormund and his warriors seem to like it.”

“It’s good,” she said, lowering the bottle and passing it to Munda, “little sips only.”

Jon took it as a good sign that she liked it enough to share with her eldest daughter, settling a bit more comfortably on the log he and Tormund were sharing. Ghost was stretched out on the ground next to them, little Dyna sitting beside him and stroking his fur, while Tormund was busy turning the rabbits over the fire. After a time of watching, Jon stood and moved to join Kendri and Munda.

“I wanted to thank you for letting me join you for dinner,” he said, “getting to meet you and your daughters means a lot to me.”

Kendri frowned at him, “why would I not welcome you? Your Tormund’s man, are you not?”

“Well,” Jon said, buying time to process being called a Tormund’s ‘man’, “Yes, I’m Tormund’s and he’s mine, but you don’t know me from any other southerner, so, I just wanted to say I appreciate being included.”

Kendri gave a short laugh, “don’t thank me yet, wait until our two hellions have full bellies and decide on their demands before going to bed. Neither will want to sleep with you three visiting.”

“My younger siblings were the same way,” Jon confided in her, leaning closer, “both my sisters were the best at thinking up excuses to stay awake a bit longer each night. A glass of water, another story from old Nan, we were all a bit spoiled back then.” He shook his head, smiling.

“Oh it won’t be water or stories they’ll be wanting, I can tell already,”

Jon followed her gaze to where Munda had joined Dyna and Ghost on the ground. His wolf was showing quite a bit of patience as the two girls poked and played with his paws.

“Ah, yes I think I agree with you,” he said with a laugh.

She joined in, offering him the bottle.

He hadn’t planned on drinking any tonight, they’d only been able to swipe the one bottle without questions being raised, but he could recognize the gesture for what it was and knew refusing wouldn’t endear him to her.

So against his better judgment, He took it with a nod, taking a swig. He passed it back, his eyes on Ghost and the girls. They were getting on better than he’d have thought. Outside of his siblings - when Ghost himself had still been a pup - he hadn’t seen his wolf interact with children much. But he seemed to tolerate, even relish, the attention the girls were showering him with. Tormund was beginning to pull the rabbits off the fire, busy propping the spits up against the logs cool. He was saying something quietly to his girls, his words lost over the crackle of the fire and under their delighted laughter.

“He’s good with them,” Kendri said, “but he hasn’t spent much time with them these last few years.”

Jon looked down and studied his hands, he knew that was at least partially his fault. It had always been Tormund’s choice, but had there really been a choice when they’d had the Night King and his Army of the Dead nipping at their heels? He knew Tormund had been fighting for his daughter’s lives as much as for his people’s futures as a whole.

Fighting had been Tormund’s choice. But it had been Jon who pulled him into the politics of it, who had pulled him that much farther from his family.

“I apologize,” he said, not lifting his eyes from his hands, as one did when they asked for forgiveness they did not deserve. He’d been selfish, keeping Tormund as close as he had.

A hand covered his, one as calloused and scarred as his or Tormund’s, “I cannot offer to forgive you,” Kendri said, her voice kind, “because there is no forgiveness to be given. That bullheaded man never does anything he doesn’t want to do.”

“Oi,” Tormund said, “don’t think I don’t see you two getting cozy. Should I be worried about you plotting against me?”

“Hurry up and feed us and we won’t put our revolt in motion,” she said, bumping her shoulder against Jon's.

Tormund grumbled but passed them one of the rabbits, giving the second to the girls and the third to Ghost.

Once he’d convinced them to leave Ghost alone long enough to eat, he walked around the fire to join them, settling down on Jon’s other side.

Kendri offered Tormund the rabbit they’d been passing back and forth.

The rabbit was good, gamey and not seasoned, but rich and hot and it reminded Jon of his time Beyond the Wall - both with the Night’s Watch and with the Wildlings. They sat under the stars, bathed in firelight, lulled into silence by wine and food, listening to Munda and Dyna chatter and play. Jon felt a weight leave his shoulders - the dinner had largely been a success. There’d been a few minor missteps, mostly on his part, but overall he seemed to be getting along with Tormund’s daughters and their ma and that was all he could ask for. He couldn’t recall now why he’d been so worried about meeting them - why he’d thought any family of Tormund’s wouldn’t be as open-hearted and genuine with their opinions as he was. These were good people. All his people were good. The evening, and admittedly the wine, had filled him with goodwill towards everything.

Nothing could ruin his good mood, could break this peaceful moment and -

“Your grace! Your grace!”

Except that.

He groaned and turned his eyes skyward, listening as a horse and rider approached them.

The rider cleared his throat, “ah, your grace?”

Tormund elbowed him and Jon sighed but looked to the messenger, “Yes?”

“Apologies for interrupting your dinner,” the messenger said, looking curiously between him and the others, “but we’ve received urgent ravens from Dragon Stone. Lady Sansa requested I fetch you.”

He exchanged a look with Tormund, the weight falling back on his shoulders heavier than before and joined by a sense of foreboding. This would not be good news.

* * *

“Have you read them?” Jon asked.

Sansa stood at the head of the war table, two scrolls placed in front of her.

“I was waiting for you, there’s one addressed to each of us.”

He circled the table to stand beside her. From this angle the writing on the outside of each scroll was visible.

Sansa pointed to the one addressed to _Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell_ , “that one is from Tyrion, I recognize his handwriting.”

“I believe that one, must be from Varys,” she pointed to the second.

Jon frowned at it.

It read: _Jon Snow, The King in the North, Rightful Heir to the Seven Kingdoms._

That didn’t bode well.

“Are you going to read them or stare at them in hopes they develop the ability to tell you their secrets?” Tormund asked from where he was leaning in the doorway.

Jon reached for his, Sansa mirroring his movements.

They read in silence and when he was done it only took a glance at Sansa to know her’s must have said something similar to his. She had grown far too pale, her mouth pinched into a thin line.

He looked back at the scroll, doing the math between the dates provided.

“You know what this means,” Sansa said, tossing her scroll onto the table and reaching over to grip his arm, “Jon.”

“I know,” he said, meeting her gaze and then turning it to Tormund, who straightened out of his slump, seeing something in Jon’s expression. “It means that in two, possibly three days, Daenerys will reign fire and blood down on Kingslanding in revenge for Missandei’s execution.”

“Where Arya will be,” Sansa whispered.

“Aye, her and thousands of innocents if the reports of Cersei inviting peasants into the Red Keep are accurate.”

“Jon...” Sansa trailed off, her hands a vice on his arm. “They’re not our people, but isn’t there something we can do?”

“You mean, isn’t there something I can do?”

“You have a better claim to the throne than she does, Jon. You’re the last Targaryen Prince’s only living son and heir. She’s only his sister.”

He tugged his arm from her grasp, turning away from her to face the fire. “I’m abdicating the Throne in the North to you, doesn’t that tell you how I feel about ruling in the South?”

“I know,” she said, “but what of the people in the South who didn’t ask for either Cersei or Daenerys to rule over them? Will you doom them to another Targaryen tyrant? One with actual dragon fire.”

His hands clenched into fists as he stared into the fire. Wishing, for the first time, that he could see answers in the flames the way Melisandre had. That he’d come back from his death with the wisdom to know what he was meant to do. He’d been sure, before, it had been to defeat the Night King.

But now he couldn’t help but wonder if it had been for something else entirely.

He didn’t know if Melisandre’s god existed, but he still believed in the Old Gods, still found a sense of peace around Weirwood trees.

“Jon,” Sansa’s voice was quieter now, her tone consoling, “you have a duty to more than just the North. You’re more than a Stark, you’re a Targaryen, and those are your people too.”

He shook his head, “I’m neither, I never have been. Knowing my parentage doesn’t change that. I’ve been a Snow my entire life, my duty is to those I’ve sworn it to, to those I love, and to no one else.”

“Fine,” she said, stalking around to stand next to him and just in his line of vision. “Then what about your oaths to the Night's Watch? What about being the Shield that Guards the Realms of Men?”

Jon growled, whipping around to face her head-on, “I’m not a member of the Night’s Watch. I served there until I died, I fulfilled my oaths.”

She grabbed his hands, prying at his fingers until they weren’t fisted and were twined with hers, “go for Arya then. Forget who your parents are, you’re the only other person in the world with a dragon.” She leaned closer, her eyes ablaze, “fuck the Iron Throne. Stop Daenerys and bring Arya home. Whoever is left alive can figure out who rules the South. You were right to keep us out of that before - but not caring who ends up on the throne isn’t the same as not caring about the people it rules.”

His eyes darted to Tormund against his better judgment and he winced at the stony expression he found there.

“I hate that it has to be you,” Sansa whispered, “that it always seems to fall to you, but it’s Arya, Jon. It’s an entire city of innocents.”

He closed his eyes and knew what he would have to do.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter may require some additional explanations. As some commenters already know, I went back and forth on what to do with Rhaegal but in the end, I decided to keep him around. More is in the second half of part two!


	3. Now it Ends (for real this time)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part two, of part two. Or part three, I guess.

 

* * *

Tormund’s head lay on Jon’s chest, but he knew Tormund was awake. He wasn’t snoring and he was laying too still. He’d learned that the other man wasn’t a stationary sleeper, he moved and twitched in his sleep. Jon was stroking Tormund’s hair instead of the other way around, his other hand laced with Tormund’s over his heart. After a moment, he gave it a squeeze and Tormund squeezed back.

“I have to go,” Jon whispered, “you know that, right?”

“I know,”

“I don’t want to, I don’t want to risk the future I promised you. But it’s my baby sister.”

“I know that, Jon, I do.”

“I thought you might be angry with me.”

“Nah,” Tormund shifted, rubbing his bearded cheek against Jon’s chest, the prickly hair tickling him, “this is who you are. I’m resigned to my luscious fiery locks turning grey too young from worrying over you.”

Jon chuckled, his hand moving from his hair to Tormund's back, drawing idle circles there.

“I think you could pull off grey, old man,” he raised his head to meet Tormund’s indignant gaze, “and some of the blame would surely rest on your daughters’ shoulders.”

“That’s true,” Tormund agreed.

They fell back into silence, less tense than the one before. Jon knew what had to be done, and he’d never been one to hesitate once his course of action was clear. It made him a good commander in battle, and he hoped a good king, but it also meant he put his loved ones through a lot of heartache.

“I’m taking Rhaegal down to Kingslanding in the morning,” Jon said into the silence, putting his course of action into words for the first time.

“I can’t go with you,” Tormund said.

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” But he wanted to, he wanted to ask him to come with him and if that truly wasn’t an option he wanted to ask him to wait. To wait on Jon to come back. But he couldn’t do that either. Kendri’s face as she watched Tormund with their daughters was seared into his mind and he knew he wouldn’t allow himself to be selfish. Not this time.

They’d had their chance, a few days with each other, and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But Jon knew he may not make it back, that it would have to be enough. Going into battle, risking his life, had never felt this difficult before.

Now, it was different. Now he knew what Tormund looked like in the morning, could recognize the way his face softened when he looked at people he loved. When he looked at Jon. He knew how much Tormund relished creature comforts though he’d never admit it, which wines he liked and which he’d drink but make faces at. He knew his family and how soft he was with them. The magnitude of all he knew, and loved, made it hard to breathe. It was too much and now it was too late for him to know the rest, to know what Tormund would look like back Beyond the Wall building a real home for his people. Farming the land instead of fighting, living the life he'd dreamed of for his people. Jon shut his eyes against the pain of it. It was too late, the time they’d had would have to be enough.

“You should take your people to the Wall,” Jon whispered, “go through as soon as the passes are clear, just in case. If I fail and Daenerys turns her attention North, you’ll be safer there.”

“I’ll take them to the wall, and I’ll send them through when the passes are clear, but I’m not going without you. I’ll wait for you there,” Tormund said, shifting again to prop his elbows on either side Jon, looming over him.

“I have no right to ask you to do that.”

“Aye, you don’t. That’s why I’m offering.”

“Tormund,” Jon said, “wait, are you sure? If your people go through without you, finding them again could be difficult. And Tormund, if Daenerys takes me down...” he trailed off, his throat tight as he imagined Tormund waiting at the Wall for him until it was too late for him to escape Daenerys.

“Kendri will leave me signs to follow to them,” Tormund said, matter of fact and unruffled by Jon’s worries, “she always does.”

“Okay,” Jon said, trying to catch his breath. His hands gripped Tormund’s elbows, tugging him closer, “Okay, are you sure?”

Tormund grinned at him, “Do I need to swear an oath or say vows? I will, my pretty crow, it will give you the right to ask this of me.”

He was serious. He was absolutely and completely serious. Jon struggled to believe it, to believe he was worth this.

“I don’t want to break any more oaths or vows,” Jon said, “if we said them, even if we didn’t do the proper ceremony, that would be it for me.”

“It already is it for us,” Tormund said, frowning down at Jon. As if he was waiting on Jon to catch up and realize something Tormund already knew, “we could wait to say the words until you return, or years after that, we could do that. But would it change anything? Would it do anything but put off the inevitable? It would only put off our chance to know where we stand.”

Where we stand, that was what Jon had been trying to figure out since Tormund slammed him up against a wall after the mass funeral. Or rather, his mind had been trying to figure out what his heart already knew. Where they stood.

“Do you want to do it my way or yours?” Jon asked.

Tormund leaned down to press a kiss to the tip of his nose, “by Free Folk standards you’re already mine. I stole you, you didn’t slit my throat, and you allowed Kendri to name you ‘my man’.”

Jon started to laugh. Among the Seven Kingdoms it was the North that was known to have quickest marriage ceremonies with the least pomp and circumstance. They didn’t have priests, the two families met in a Godswood and witnessed the couple exchange their words. It seemed this was another case where the Free Folk were more Northern than the North he’d grown up in, their wedding ceremonies even quicker. So much so that this was the second time Jon had found himself in this situation without realizing it.

“I take you to be mine,” Jon whispered, the words slightly different since they weren’t in front of a Weirwood tree.

“I take you to be mine,” Tormund repeated.

Jon surged up and kissed him, hard and fierce and scared. Scared that he wouldn’t get to keep this.

“Shh, little crow,” Tormund whispered when they separated to breathe, “it’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

* * *

When Jon and Tormund reached the courtyard the next morning he was surprised to find a small group waiting for them.

Sansa had been a given but Gendry, Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime were not.

“What’s this then?” Jon asked.

Gendry stepped forward, “I’m going with you, your grace. It’s Arya, if I want to wed her, she has to be alive.”

“You realize we’re traveling by dragon? We’d never make it in time otherwise. It won’t be a comfortable ride.”

But Gendry didn’t back down, “Please, your grace.”

“Alright,” Jon said with a sigh. Unable to deny the man a path he would be taking in his place. “And what of you two?”

“I’m sworn to the Lady Sansa,” Brienne said, “I’m here to see you off and try to talk this fool out of his plans.”

“You won’t succeed,” Jaime said, stepping forward and nodding his head in deference to Jon. As close to a bow or a bending of the knee as Jon ever expected to get from a Lannister. “My sister is a hateful woman and deserves quite a bit of what is coming to her. She deserves to reap what she has sowed. Maybe she even deserves to die to dragon fire. But the innocent babe in her belly doesn’t deserve any of it.”

“Your babe,” Jon said, watching Jaime for a flinch or a denial. But he nodded, holding Jon’s gaze.

“What you are planning will not be easy,” Jaime said, not directly denying Jon’s claim, but not answering it either, “no matter how righteous, killing a mad Targaryen ruler is not easy to live with. I know.”

For a moment they held the other’s gaze and Jon remembered meeting Jaime for the first time, in this very courtyard. He’d scorned the man’s honor, had named him kingslayer with the same derision his father had. And now here they stood, perhaps the only two people living who understood the enormity of what Jon may have to do.

He hoped there would be another way, but his hopes had never gotten him far.

“It’ll be hard to keep a grip on Rhaegal with one hand,” Jon said finally, “we may have to do you the indignity of tying you to him.”

Jaime nodded and tugged Brienne off to the side. Jon turned to Sansa, giving them the privacy to say their own goodbyes as he said his.

She walked over and he took a moment to study her. She was as impeccably dressed as ever, but her mouth was pinched with fear and there were dark circles under her eyes. He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept the night before it seemed.

“This isn’t how I wanted to do this,” Jon said before she could speak, “I wanted to abdicate formally, to be there to see your coronation. To celebrate it as the happy occasion it should be. But a Stark must always be in Winterfell and in this case, that Stark must be a ruler.”

Sansa covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide.

“Before the Battle of Winterfell, I wrote a writ, with many of our bannermen witnessing, that makes you my heir. It’s in the chest in my room, it should give you the legitimacy you need in my absence.”

“Jon,” she whispered.

He took off his cloak, his thickest, most regal cloak. The one that made him feel a bit more like a king just for wearing it. As if the weight of it represented the weight of his people and his duty to them. He cleared his throat, “I have no crown to offer you,” he gingerly wrapped the cloak around her shoulders, “but I hope this will do. You’ll have to adjust it to fit you properly.”

Sansa lowered her hands to clasp his where they lingered at the front of the cloak.

“I name you Sansa Stark, the Gentle Wolf, the Queen in the North.”

“The Queen in the North,” Gendry repeated, Jaime and Brienne intoning it as well as they rejoined the group.

Sansa threw herself at Jon, hugging him so tight he lost his breath. “Come back, Jon, you have to.”

He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her from the ground as he cradled her close. His first younger sibling, the first to find him again after they’d all been separated, his gentle yet fierce she-wolf sister.

“Take care of our people,” he whispered in her ear, “and pass my love onto Bran.”

He set her back down, his heart in his throat as he watched her wipe away tears. Brienne stepped up behind her, a hand on her shoulder, and met Jon’s gaze.

Jon nodded to her. He knew his sister was in good hands.

He looked to Gendry and Jaime, “I’ll ride out first and ready Rhaegal, meet me there.”

Tormund approached then, having used the goodbyes as an opportunity to fetch them a couple of horses.

They mounted up and rode out without lingering further. The longer Jon had stood in that courtyard, the less he had wanted to leave. In the end, it was only the thought of Arya in danger that drove him to go.

The two of them rode as close as was safe while on horseback, the silence between them comfortable and full of knowing exactly where they stood.

Rhaegal had moved closer to the castle, leaving the shade of the trees to sun himself in the morning sunlight. Jon shook his head ruefully as he spotted a white from laid out beside the dragon. Ghost had always known him too well.

As they rode closer Rhaegal shifted, lifting his head to peer at them. Something settled more firmly in Jon’s mind and he knew that Ghost wasn’t the only creature to know him too well, now.

They dismounted and Jon tied his horse's reins to Tormund’s saddle.

“You can’t put off saying goodbye forever, you know,” Tormund said, coming up behind Jon, his hands finding and settling on his waist.

Jon closed his eyes, “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry that I’m leaving now,” now that they had finally, that Jon had finally, realized what they were to each other.

“Our timing is shit,” Jon said, opening his eyes and turning in Tormund’s grasp to face him, “but I’d rather know late, than never know at all.”

Tormund didn’t say anything, his eyes roaming up and down Jon as if to memorize him, sear him into his memory. No matter the vows they said, no matter the promises they made to wait or to return, they both knew there was an outcome where the worst happened. There was a version of events where this was the last time they saw each other.

“None of that was a goodbye,” Tormund pointed out, the lines around his eyes crinkling in a small but genuine smile.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” Jon said, his hands clenching in Tormund’s furs, “I’m not dying in the South, I’m going to meet you at the Wall, to think otherwise, to say goodbye...” makes the chance he wouldn’t too real, he thought but didn’t say.

He opened his mouth to say more and Tormund misread the moment and kissed him, or maybe he didn’t misread it. Jon pulled him closer, leaning into him as the kiss turned fierce and desperate.

Tormund’s hands found his ass, squeezing there and pulling him forward and up until they were pressed fully together, no space between them. Jon had one hand gripping Tormund's elbow and the other behind his neck to keep his balance.

Someone coughed and they broke apart.

Jon ran a hand down his face, peeking through his fingers to see Jaime and Gendry approaching. The former amused and the latter shocked.

“That’ll do as a goodbye,” Tormund said, voice quiet enough that only Jon heard. Jon looked his way but he was backing up, moving to stand by Ghost.

Gendry and Jaime reached them, their pace slower on foot. Thankfully neither commented on what they had interrupted.

“How are we meant to get up there?” Jaime asked, his good hand gripping a round of rope.

Jon glanced at Rhaegal who helpfully slanted down his good wing, providing a ramp of sorts.

“Give me a moment and then I’ll climb up, you’ll want to settle behind me,” Jon said, turning away from them to approach Tormund and Ghost.

Tormund looked older than his years, a resigned weight lowering his shoulders. At his side, Ghost was waiting, his tail low and ears back.

He crouched in front of him, hands stroking his wolf, “I wish I could take you with me, boy, but I don’t think you would do well on the back of a dragon.” Ghost whined, licking at his face. Jon leaned their foreheads together, the piece of his mind linked with his wolf flooded with warmth and fondness and pack. He pulled away and stood, looking between the two pieces of his heart in front of him, “look after each other until I get back.”

Ghost leaned his weight into Tormund’s side the way he often did to Jon, who hesitantly put his hand on his head.

The sight warmed Jon and audience be damned, he stepped forward and pulled Tormund in for one last kiss, this one gentle and terribly brief.

He tore himself away before they could get distracted, as they so often did, and moved to climb on Rhaegal’s back, pausing only to stroke the dragon’s head as he passed.

It would be a long journey, the sooner started the sooner returned.

* * *

“Are we there yet?”

“If you ask that one more time I will kick you off this dragon.”

“And who will untie you from it when we reach the city? His grace will be too busy with the Dragon Queen and her dragon.”

“We passed the Twins at dawn,” Jon cut in before the two could spin out into another argument, “it shouldn’t be long now.”

They fell silent, perhaps having heard the irritation in his voice. With each wing beat that took them further away from Winterfell, from his pack and his people, Jon grew that much more irritable.

“Is that smoke?” Gendry asked, pointing over Jon’s shoulder.

Jon frowned, “Yes, we’re getting close. I’ll set down on the city wall and you two can get off there. It’ll have to be quick, a second dragon will be noticed.”

He looked back at their grimly determined faces, “Gendry you find Arya and Jaime... you do whatever it is you came to do. Meet me at the city gates after.”

“Yes, your grace,” Gendry said while Jaime remained silent.

Jon didn’t press him on it as they soared over the mountains that led to the coast, coming into full view of Kingslanding.

“Oh gods,” he wasn’t sure which of them said it, or if they all did.

Daenerys and her dragon weren’t burning the city walls or the Red Keep, they were burning the city. Something cold and foreboding dripped down his spine, the weight of responsibility he’d been carrying for years settling on him heavier than ever.

“Set us down as close to the Keep as possible,” Jaime shouted to be heard as Rhaegal picked up speed and the wind became louder, “it won’t be long before she turns her attention there.”

Without a word from him Rhaegal banked towards the Keep, falling from the sky at speed as he approached the last ring of walls separating it from the city surrounding it. He set down on it, the stone crumbling beneath their weight.

Jon kept his eyes on the sky, on Daenerys and Drogon, as the two scrambled to untie Jaime and slide off.

“Hurry,” He said as Drogon stopped spewing flames to let out a mighty roar, banking mid-flight in their direction. They’d been spotted.

There was cursing behind him followed by thuds as they half fell down to the wall below them.

“Go, your grace,” Gendry shouted, “I’ll find Arya and see her safe, I swear it.”

Rhaegal shifted beneath him, his weight moving to his hind legs before jolting forward to propel them into the sky, towards his brother and mother who were circling above the city. Waiting on them.

“Nephew!” Daenerys called once they were in hearing range and Jon was taken aback at how happy she seemed to see them. Her face was lit with a childlike glee, her warrior’s braid whipping around behind her.

“You did come,” she said as Drogon and Rhaegal flew abreast each other, hovering mid-air with steady wing beats. “I hoped that this was why Rhaegal went back to you, he knew, as I do, that you belong here with us.”

Jon’s hands tightened their grip on Rhaegal. There was something off about Daenerys, this wasn’t the cold and forlorn and determined woman he’d last seen at Winterfell, the one who had lost the advisor who had consistently tempered her. It wasn't the kind and warm woman he'd first met in Dragonstone either. He didn't recognize this Daenerys.

“Why are you burning the city, Aunt?” He asked, “you’re burning innocent men, women, and children. _Children_ , Daenerys.”

“Innocent?” Her face twisted from childlike wonder to a visage of anger, “those are free people below us Nephew. They chose to follow Cersei, to stand by as she executed my sweet Missandei. They are as culpable as she is.”

“I am liberating them, with fire and blood. Future generations will thank me for it.”

Jon shook his head, his worst fears coming to life. “No, they won’t. I didn’t come here to join you, I came here to stop you. I can’t allow you to massacre a city.”

She snarled, Drogon turning in air to face them head-on, his fangs bared as hers were. “Try and stop me, my foolhardy Nephew. Rhaegal will not help you fight his mother.”

Jon knew she was wrong, could feel how Rhaegal’s resigned determination matched his, their sadness and sense of duty looping between them and amplifying.

Drogon wheeled around to dive at the city, Rhaegal following after. The two dragons spun through the sky, clawing and biting and roaring at each other. Jon held on for all he was worth, caught sight of Daenerys doing the same as their dragons fought for them. Rhaegal was as fierce as his rider but at the end of the day, Drogon was bigger and more vicious.

Jon winced as Drogon bit at Rhaegals still healing wing, the two dragons locked together and rapidly dropping from the sky. The Red Keep was rapidly approaching, their combined weight working against them as they hurtled downwards. He braced for the impact as they crashed through the roof of the Keep.

They hit and rolled and Jon cried out as he was thrown from Rhaegal and into a wall. He fell to the ground, his vision blacking over as he struggled to breathe around the fire in his chest.

Stones knocked loose by their impact fell around them, barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

He blinked, black shifting to grey as he coughed. Dust and ash fell around them and he struggled to sit up.

They’d crashed into the throne room he realized, looking around at the ornate columns and then to the Iron Throne. It was not near as impressive a sight as he’d expected.

“My children,” Daenerys said, crawling towards where the dragons had landed in a heap. She must have been thrown off too.

Drogon rumbled in reply but didn’t move, he and Rhaegal having taken the brunt of the impact to save their riders.

“Daenerys, please,” Jon struggled to stand, “isn’t this enough? Haven’t enough people died?”

She glared over her shoulder at him, “I’ll hear no more words from you, you betrayed me. Turned against your own family.”

He stumbled over to her, “you killed _innocents_ , the people you came here to protect. You slaughtered them, burned them alive. The Daenerys I met in Dragonstone would be horrified.”

For a second, he thought he saw terrible understanding flicker across her face.

He’d reached her now and fell to kneel beside her, his ribs burning and aching. “You became your father, Aunt. You burned them all.”

“No,” she whispered, “I saved them all. Didn’t I?”

The childlike visage had returned but instead of happiness, it was one seeking validation. Like a child running to a parent and asking to be told they’d done the right thing. The sight made Jon’s heart hurt.

“No, Dany,” for this was the young girl whose brother called her Dany that he was talking to, “you didn’t.”

He reached out with a shaky hand, stroking her hair from her face.

“I wanted to, I wanted to save them. I wanted to go home.”

“I know,” Jon’s said, one hand moving to wipe away her tears.

She looked up at him, her purple eyes wide and teary and beseeching. “I don’t want to be my father Jon, I don’t want to be Queen of the Ashes, to hurt any more innocents,” she broke off with a sob, “any more _children_.”

Her hand fumbled at his waist, unsheathing the dagger there. She pressed it into his hands. “Please Jon, please do this for me. Please make it quick.”

He clasped the dagger with clumsy hands, his throat tight with emotions he couldn’t express. Grief and anger at the world for making this necessary, sadness that it had to be him to do the deed, rage at the injustice of it - that she’d be killed by her last living family.

He leaned over and kissed her forehead, one hand cupping her face while the other maneuvered the dagger.

She sighed, and he imagined he could hear relief in it. “Take care of my children, Nephew, they’re yours now.”

He shut his eyes from the pain of it. “I will, I promise” he said as he thrust the dagger forward in one quick and brutal movement. Beneath him she gasped, tensing and then relaxing as life left her.

Jon cradled her body close to him, his eyes still shut against what he’d done. What he’d become.

Queenslayer, and worse, kinslayer.

Both dragons roared their grief to the skies, the Red Keep crumbling around them.

* * *

“This is where the dragons were spotted falling.”

“The throne room? That’s rich.”

“If my Queen was injured by your King. I will kill you all.”

“If your Queen hurt my brother then -“

Arya’s voice cut off and Jon knew without looking up that they had entered the throne room.

He’d moved to sit on the only chair available, Daenerys still cradled in his arms, a dragon curled up on each side. He wondered how absurd the scene must appear to them, a man widely known as a bastard sitting on the iron throne with his dead aunt in his arms and two grieving dragons flanking him.

“Jon?” Arya asked, her voice more tentative than he’d ever heard it, “is she..." she trailed off without finishing her question.

Grey Worm growled, drawing his sword, “I will kill you where you sit.”

Jon didn’t look at him, both Rhaegal and Drogon snarling at the Unsullied getting his point across for him.

Instead, he looked to Arya and Gendry, “send ravens to the highest-ranking Houses and have them come to Kingslanding to choose a new ruler. I’ll abdicate to whoever they choose.”

Gendry walked forward, kneeling before him, “as you wish, Jon Snow, King of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

He remained kneeling until Jon nodded to him. He brushed past Grey Worm as he ran from the room, hopefully, to find the quickest ravens.

The Unsullied general didn’t seem to know what do, with his lover dead, his queen dead, and her children warning him away with fangs and growls.

Arya walked closer to the throne but didn’t kneel, to Jon’s relief.

“Brother, you’re bleeding,” she said, pointing to her own cheek as she walked up the steps to the throne. “Let’s lay Daenerys to rest and get your wounds looked at. It’ll be days before the lords and ladies arrive.”

Jon looked down, Daenerys was so light he’d almost forgotten he was still holding her. She’d been slim when they first met and only grown thinner as time had gone on. If only he’d recognized the signs sooner, seen the path she was walking down, maybe he could have saved her.

“Jon?”

He stood, Daenerys in his arms. He didn’t have a bond with Drogon, not the way he did with Rhaegal, but something told him to lay Daenerys across the throne and step down. Jon grasped Arya’s elbow and tugged her with him, not looking back as Drogon roared and heat hit his back.

Arya gasped, stumbling beside him. Grey Worm scrambled past them in a mad bid to reach his queen’s body but didn’t get there in time to stop her burning with the throne. His spear fell from his grip and he dropped to his knees.

Jon turned back, unflinching at the sight of the melted Iron Throne. “The Unsullied have no place in Westeros, leave while you have the chance or we will drive you away with force.”

Grey Worm jumped to his feet, spear in his hands again. Arya slid in front of Jon, needle held in front of her. “Try it and I’ll slit your throat.”

Just when Jon thought he would force Arya to do it, Grey Worm sighed and relaxed out of his battle stance. “I will stay long enough to ensure someone worthy is chosen and then I will take my people and go.” His glare at Jon made it clear who wouldn’t be considered ‘worthy’.

“See that you steer clear of my brother until then,” Arya warned him, “you do not want to make an enemy of me.”

He scowled but nodded, “may I rejoin my men?”

“No more killing,” Jon ordered, “if I hear of any executions of Lannister soldiers or civilians I will have all your heads.”

Grey Worm nodded begrudgingly before striding last them. Arya moved as he did, keeping herself between him and Jon the entire time.

Once alone with Arya and his dragons, Jon stumbled, falling down to one knee.

“Jon?” Arya cried out, crouching down beside him.

“It’s okay,” he rasped, catching her hand as she reached for him, “I’m just tired.” He toppled into her and knew no more.

* * *

Jon woke to the sound of birds singing, southern birds he’d only heard in Dragonstone before now. Northern birds, when it was warm enough for them to be out, had a different cadence to their song than their southern cousins.

He looked around a room he didn’t recognize, sitting up too quickly, the movement pulling on his ribs until he winced with it.

Beside him, Arya groaned and shifted in her sleep. He was warmed to see needle unsheathed and resting beside her, within easy reach.

Moving more carefully, so as to not jostle either his wounds or his baby sister, he eased off the bed.

The rooms were ornate but small, a balcony attached that was twice the size of the rooms. The double doors connecting to it were thrown open and it was clear why when he stepped outside. His rooms were on the ground floor, the balcony wasn’t a balcony at all, but a patio connecting to an open courtyard.

In the center of it, Drogon and Rhaegal were curled together, sleeping.

Jon leaned in the doorway, arms curled around his middle. Rhaegal opened one eye to peer at him, chittering in greeting.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, watching over the last of the dragons, but it must have been a while for the sun was directly overhead when someone banged on the door.

“Arya? Your grace?”

Gendry.

Jon didn’t turn away, listening as Arya rose from the bed and went to let Gendry in. He straightened up and strode into the clearing, away from the couple whispering behind him.

Rhaegal and Drogon lifted their heads as he approached, their eyes on him.

“Hi boys,” he murmured, unwrapping one arm to hold his hand out.

The two dragons exchanged a look and Jon held his breath as Drogon was the one to bring his head closer. He braced for a roar, for dragon fire, for his comeuppance for murdering their mother and Drogon’s rider.

Instead, Drogon nudged his hand with his snout, asking for pets.

Jon laughed, more than a little hysterical as he obliged. It wasn’t long before Rhaegal was jostling his brother aside for his own turn. Once again, Jon found himself wondering how intelligent dragons were. Were they so forgiving because he was the last Targaryen? Or was it because they understood his actions had been a mercy to Daenerys in the end?

He’d probably never know.

“Jon? The noble houses are arriving. Gendry brought you a change of clothes.”

He turned to see them both standing in the patio, their hands clasped between them. The sight reminded him of his journey south, of who had come with him and why.

“What of Jaime?” He asked as he gave both dragons one last pet and moved to join them.

“No one’s seen hide nor hair of him or Cersei,” Gendry answered, “Tyrion suspects they managed to flee the city - hopefully to never return.”

For the sake of their child, Jon hoped that was true.

“How are you feeling?” Arya asked, releasing Gendry’s hand to grasp his forearm, the gesture one he was more used to receiving from Sansa. Arya’s grip was harder but just as protective and beseeching. “Jon?”

“I’m fine,” he said finally, tugging his arm free to wrap it around her shoulders instead, leaning against her. She looped her arm around his waist, helping him back inside without being asked. Gendry cut ahead of them, readying the clothes he’d brought.

Jon stopped short at the sight of the northern armor, leathers and fur cloak, a familiar dire wolf insignia on them.

“Are those father’s?”

“Yes, some of his things were still stored away here.” Arya said, leading him over to Gendry, “he’d want you to have them.”

Jon swallowed against the ball of emotion in his throat, eyes stinging. He glanced down at his bandaged ribs.

“I may need help getting dressed.”

Arya and Gendry were as gentle as possible but Jon was still swearing and sweating by the time they were done. In the end, the shirt and upper armor were more pain than it was worth to get on. That left him in pants and boots with only a fur cloak around his shoulders. Arya settled the leather straps across his chest, careful to ensure the weight didn’t rest on any of his bruises or wounds.

He scowled at the thought of baring his scars and bandages but knew his pride wasn't worth the pain of getting in a shirt. Of wearing himself out to the point he'd be in no state to join the meeting.

Gendry tied leather braces around his forearms, slipping thin knives between the leather and his skin. He raised an eyebrow and Gendry shrugged, “that room is going to be a vipers pit of houses jockeying for power. You never know,”

Next was longclaw and Arya was the one the carefully settle the belt around his hips, the familiar weight a comfort.

“We didn’t have time to fashion a crown,” she teased, “not that you would accept it.”

He reached over and tugged on a strand of her hair, “impetuous brat.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and Gendry shook his head with a laugh.

“How long was I out?” It must have been a day or two, at least, if the other Houses were arriving.

Arya and Gendry sobered, exchanging a look he couldn’t read. An odd angle to her frown, a twitch in his eyebrow.

“Almost a week,” Gendry said after a moment, “we were beginning to fear you wouldn’t wake in time for the summit.”

A week. Jon sat down hard on the bed, his hand reaching for and finding Arya’s. A week since Daenerys burned Kingslanding, since he’d killed her for it.

He rubbed his chest with his free hand, the scar over his heart aching.

“Jon? We should go soon, they will be eager to start.”

He nodded and offered his other hand to Gendry. Between the two of them, they managed to get him back to his feet and walking. Jon was numb to it all, his senses deafened and his will to care gone. He’d reached the bottom of his ability to care and scraped it dry. He wanted to be done with it all, to climb onto Rhaegal and fly him North.

He wanted to see Tormund and Ghost. To take Arya and Gendry back to Sansa where he knew they’d be safe. He wanted to rest.

He leaned on Arya as they journeyed through the Keep, the halls deserted and silent and crumbling around them. It would be the work of several lifetimes to rebuild it.

He pulled up short as they approached the double doors leading to the throne room.

“Here?” He asked, hoping Arya would deny it. That he wouldn’t have to step foot in there again.

“They insisted it was the proper place,” Arya said with a grimace.

Jon sighed and straightened, pulling away from her and setting his shoulders. He would walk in under his own power.

“Thank you,” he said to them both before leading the way in.

He didn’t allow himself to look at the molten remains of the Iron Throne and the last ruler to sit there, instead focusing on the round table that had been dragged into the center of the room. He recognized some, but not all, of the nobles present and seated. His movements briefly stuttered as he spotted Bran sitting among them, Ser Brienne’s squire Podrick at his back.

His brother nodded him to the empty chair that placed him at the head of the table, directly in line with where the Iron Throne would be if it was still standing.

Jon strode over, Arya at his back and Gendry moving to the empty seat beside him.

He stood next to his seat, the lords and ladies who had stood at his entrance watching him expectantly. “Is this everyone?”

“It is, your grace,” Tyrion answered from where he stood across from him. He was dressed in red and gold, here not as Daenerys’ hand but as the last high ranking Lannister in Westeros.

Jon nodded and sat down, the others following suit.

Grey Worm stepped from the shadows, “I protest that you should have a say in this, Kinslayer. You slew the last ruler to win the Throne.”

Behind him, Arya started forward but Jon raised a hand and she fell back. “I’m not weighing in, I do not care who sits the Throne in the South. My sister’s people are North of the Twins and my people are further North than that. I took the throne with every intention to abdicate to whoever they choose.”

“But you still took the throne,” a woman dressed in Dornish colors leaned forward, “why not keep it?”

“And you are?” Jon asked - he’d heard that the Lannisters had killed the last of the mainline of Martells.

“Sarella Sand, Oberyn’s eldest daughter. The Lannister’s did not kill us all," she said, leaning forward with a viper’s smile, “rumor is you are not a Snow at all, your grace, but the last living Targaryen. Dorne would bend the knee to you, presuming we get to enjoy the same privileges we had under your ancestors.”

Yara Greyjoy scoffed, “wasn’t Dorne sworn to Daenerys? How quickly you turn and kiss the boots of her killer.”

Sarella shrugged, her dress slipping to reveal more of her tan shoulder as she smiled at Yara, “I had no say in that decision and if the dragons have forgiven him then that is all I need to know. They would not have done so if he were wrong to kill their mother.”

Yara frowned and turned her burning glare on Jon, “Theon spoke highly of you, you know. He said you were the most like Ned Stark. What would he say of you now?”

Jon met her gaze and refused to flinch, “I’m sorry for your loss, he was my brother too.”

She looked away first, grief creasing her face and leaving her old and weary.

He looked to Sarella first and then slowly looked around the rest of the table. Edmure Tully, Robyn Arryn, Samwell Tarly and more he didn’t recognize - minor members risen to power in the wake of decimating wars. His gaze stopped on Bran, who met it steadily. He didn’t understand why his brother was here, the North was independent and stood apart under Stark rule once again.

Why was Bran here?

Bran didn’t give him any clues though, his face as still and remote as it ever was.

Jon moved his gaze to Tyrion, another around the table who appeared to have aged years since he’d last seen them. “I meant what I said, I will be abdicating. Take too long to choose and I’ll leave the throne empty.”

That got them talking, shouting over each other in an effort to be heard.

Jon leaned back in his chair, one hand idly massaging his ribs. He glanced back at Arya and she stepped closer and leaned down.

“Do you know why Bran is here?” He asked, voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry.

Arya shot him a bemused look, “he doesn't explain himself to anyone anymore.”

He nodded, “any word from Sansa?”

“The bannermen recognized her rule and held a formal coronation a few days after you left. She sent along wishes for our speedy and safe return home.”

He nodded, eyes on the nobles who weren’t acting very noble in front of him.

“Jon?” Arya asked, her voice dropping even lower if that was possible, “what did you mean when you said your people are even further North?”

He sighed, turning to face her, he’d hoped to be able to tell all his siblings together, in a better setting than this.

“The free folk want to resettle the lands North of the Wall now that the Night King is no longer there to keep them eternally in winter. The lands were once fertile and they have hope they will be again. I want to go with them, it’s where I belong.”

Arya gripped his shoulder, “you belong with your family, with your pack.”

“Aye, and the free folk are my pack too. Tormund and his daughters and their ma and all the men and their spear-wives.” He covered her shaking hand with his, “I can’t explain how I know, but that’s where I’m meant to be. We’ll still see each other, with Sansa ruling there’s no reason we can’t visit.”

“And I don’t expect you’ll be staying in Winterfell either,” he said with a pointed look at Gendry who was shaking his head in dismayed awe at the chaos around them.

Arya flushed, “he won’t be needing the lands he asked for, I asked him to come traveling with me.”

Jon smiled, lifting her hand from his shoulder and kissing her knuckles, “I’m happy for you both. Are you going to allow Sansa to plan your wedding?”

Arya groaned but the smile tugging at her lips revealed how she really felt, “if we must.”

He opened his mouth to tease her more, momentarily forgetting where they were and why, when a voice shouted, “quiet!”

Tyrion was standing on his chair, shaking with rage.

“Are we children or are we noble ladies and lords who know how to act in ways befitting our stations?” he demanded, “the next person to whine like a child will be sent from the room like one.”

Jon hid a grin at the abashed group around him.

“Good,” Tyrion said when one continued to argue or shout, “now, I think we should all think long and hard about how we got here. After centuries of rule under one family, the throne has shifted from one ruler to the next in rapid succession. Robert’s rule was the last stable one and it didn’t last past his death. Hereditary rule is dangerous, it only takes one mad child to topple a dynasty. We saw it with Aerys and Joffery and more since.”

He paced to the center of the table, his head above all theirs and him the more righteous for it. “If we can set aside our pride and self-interest long enough to choose a wise and deserving ruler, we can establish a new method of choosing who rules. One where no one sits the throne due solely to their blood.”

“You speak like you have someone in mind,” Sarella said, her voice dry and mocking, “yourself perhaps?”

Tyrion shuddered, “Gods no, I wish to return to Casterly Rock and rebuild my family and home, I’m done advising rulers and I'm certainly not willing to rule myself.”

“Then who?” Edmure asked, “the last Baratheon sits among us, even if he is a legitimized bastard.”

Jon looked to Gendry amused too see him pale and already shaking his head, “no, no not me. I’m leaving Westeros with my lady, I don’t want a throne.”

“Both the last Baratheon and the last Targaryen have refused us, who does that leave?” Yara observed, her tone filled with dark humor, “The Iron Islands won’t bow to a minor noble.”

“That leaves,” Tyrion said, turning to face Bran, “the last male Stark. One your brother, Theon, died protecting.”

Yara sat back in her chair, looking between Tyrion and Bran.

“What made Robert Baratheon‘s rule stable?” Tyrion asked the room at large, “he was a drunkard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, who reached his prime young and was more suited as a battle general than as a king. But he was a king who let his chosen advisors rule, only stepping in when he felt it necessary. For good or for ill. And Bran? He’s the three-eyed raven. He will know when to step in and when to leave decisions to his small council, a council we can help him choose.”

“The three-eyed raven?” Robyn asked, “I don’t know what that means.”

“I don’t really understand it either,” Tyrion said with a careless shrug, “but he has more knowledge and wisdom than everyone in this room combined.”

Jon and Arya exchanged a look, Bran was their brother and they hardly understood it either.

“Should this decision be up to just us?” Samwell asked, glancing over at Jon. He hadn’t seen much of the man who called himself Jon’s best friend of late, not since the Battle of Winterfell when Sam had called out to Jon and he hadn’t stopped to save him. “Shouldn’t the minor houses get a say?”

The other lords and ladies stared at him, “why? They’re all bannermen to one of the houses present and honor-bound to vote with them. The outcome would be the same.” Tyrion answered, waving off Samwell’s question, “now if no one else has a candidate to put forward, I say we vote on Bran.”

When no one put forward another name, Tyrion looked to Jon who nodded and stood.

“All those in favor of choosing Bran Stark to be the King of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm say ‘aye’,” Jon said, one hand on the back of his chair to keep himself steady.

Tyrion was the first to say it, followed by Yara and then Gendry. There was a pause then, broken when Sarellla sighed but said it as well. After that, it wasn’t long before the whole table had agreed.

Jon drew longclaw, raising it to the sky, “to Bran, the three-eyed raven, long may he reign.”

“Long may he reign.”

* * *

“Are you sure you’re ready to make the journey?” Arya asked, eyeing Jon’s middle warily.

He shrugged, “I don’t care, I want to go home, Arya.”

She nodded, turning her gaze to the dragons instead. They were outside the city gates, Rhaegal and Drogon resting in front of them.

“I had hoped not to ride a dragon again,” Gendry complained, hefting his and Arya’s bags over his shoulder.

Jon glanced at him, “you could travel on horseback, but I’d be gone by the time you reached Winterfell.”

“Which is why we’re traveling with you,” Arya said, elbowing her lover in the side.

Jon turned away with a smirk, looking to the crowd behind them, there to see them off.

At the front was Bran, flanked on either side by Podrick, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Tyrion, his begrudging Hand of the King.

They’d all been amused when Bran, crowned king by Tyrion, had turned around and forced the imp to be his Hand.

Jon moved over to Bran, leaning over to cup his head and press a kiss to his curls the same way he had when Bran was a boy. “I’m sorry to leave you alone, here in the south.”

“But I’m never alone, Jon, none of our pack is. No matter how far apart we are, we’re still family.” Bran said, his words gentle but his tone as indifferent as it always seemed to be now. Jon struggled to see any of the rambunctious little bother he remembered in the king before him but couldn’t find more than a brief glimmer. A glimmer would have to do, he thought as he backed away.

He hadn’t knelt and would not kneel to his brother in the South or his sister in the North. He had spent too long with the Free Folk to ever kneel to anyone.

Drogon leaped into the sky with a roar, circling above impatiently. With one last glance at his brother, Jon joined Arya and Gendry by Rhaegal, climbing up first.

Once they were all comfortably situated Rhaegal threw himself into the sky after his brother, roaring a challenge. Jon grinned and braced himself as the two dragons raced through the sky, dancing in the air as they had over Kingslanding but with none of the violence. Only a sense of playfulness and a desire to show off a bit for the people below.

Behind him, Arya whooped and Gendry moaned.

Their pace was slower on the return trip with no urgency spurring them to fly all night and all day. Still, travel by dragon was much quicker than by horse and they reached Winterfell within a sennight.

“Are you sure you won’t stay?” Arya inched closer to him as the dragons began circling over the castle, “you could spend a few nights here, rest up. Witness my wedding.”

He glanced back at her, tempted by the pleading in her eyes, but ultimately shook his head. “I have vows of my own to honor, someone waiting on me.”

“Tormund? Your wildling?” She asked, her frown edging into a knowing smirk.

Jon was saved from her teasing as the dragons set down in front of Winterfell’s outer gates, the sight of their sister waiting to distract Arya.

“Sansa,” she called out, half falling off Rhaegal’s back in her haste to reach her. Gendry followed at a more sedate and careful pace.

Jon stayed where he was, watching his sisters hug.

Sansa still wore his cloak over her blue dress, her red hair braided around her head in the manner of a circlet. Like her brothers before her, she’d forgone a crown and displayed her royal status in more subtle ways.

She pulled away from Arya, looking up to Jon. “I’d like a hug, if you’d deign to join us on the ground.”

Jon slid off of Rhaegal, wincing as the landing jolted his still tender ribs. Sansa grabbed his hands and kissed his cheeks, “welcome brother, King Beyond the Wall, the White Wolf, the Last Dragon, and Abdicator of Southern thrones,”

“That is too many titles for any one person,” he sighed as he drew her into a hug.

“Then it’s good you’re going beyond the Wall, isn’t it? They won’t use your titles, except maybe to mock you.”

“Arya wrote you then?”

“About your plans to join Tormund and his people, your people?” Sansa asked as they separated, “she only confirmed what I’d already guessed.”

Jon shook his head, his grin rueful, “I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore.”

His sisters both laughed at him.

“Are you leaving now?” Sansa asked.

Jon didn’t answer straight away, reaching up to brush his fingers along her braided crown, “I like it.”

She smiled at him, her cheeks pinking at the compliment. Her hands caught his, bringing it down to cradle her cheek, “stay Jon, just for a bit.”

“You don’t play fair,” he accused, his thumb rubbing her cheek.

Arya stepped up on his other side, slipping under his arm to curl into him, careful of his wounds.

He shifted his hand to the back of Sansa’s neck, pulling her and Arya into a tight hug. They both looped their arms around him, knowing without him speaking that even playing dirty wouldn’t convince him to stay this time.

“We’ll write and visit, our lands aren’t so far apart that we’ll never see each other again,” he whispered, feeling their nods in reply, “don’t travel so far you can’t find your way home, Arya. We’ll be waiting for you.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

Pulling away from them felt like ripping off a piece of himself and he knew he was. Some part of him would remain with his sisters, a portion of his heart was theirs alone, to be found again only when they reunited.

“Take care of yourselves,” he told them, “you’re only allowed to die of old age.”

On cue, they rolled their eyes at him saying, “yes, big brother.”

He pressed one last kiss to each of their foreheads, pretending not to see their tears and not acknowledging his own as he turned away and climbed back on Rhaegal’s back.

“Tell your man Tormund that if any harm comes to you he’ll answer to us,” Arya called after him.

He looked back, prouder than he could say to see his two sisters standing side by side, Gendry guarding their backs. If you’d told him when he was a child that Arya and Sansa would grow to be close and to rely on each other above all others he would have laughed. And now look at them, the Stark sisters united against the world.

He lifted his hand in a wave, watching their figures until they were too small to see as Rhaegal and Drogon hurtled through the sky. With any luck, they would reach the Wall that night.

* * *

It was dark when they set down outside Castle Black. No one must have been watching the southern side of the wall as no horns called out and no one came to meet them.

Jon slid from Rhaegal’s back, taking advantage of the lack of a welcome party to stroke and praise both dragons. With any luck, he’d be able to convince Tormund to stay at the Wall for a few days, rest the dragons before following the path Kendri had marked to find their people. “Rest up, boys, you earned it,” he whispered, a hand stroking each as the brothers purred and pressed in to his hands.

And then he walked up to the gates that had been left slightly ajar. He pushed it open wide enough to slip through.

There in the courtyard was Tormund leaning against a wall, his eyes shut as he dozed there, Ghost sitting at his feet, with gaze fixed on him and Jon’s heart stopped.

He walked up to them, stopping just short of them. Tormund jolted awake, freezing when he spotted Jon.

He stood there, drinking in the sight of them. Now that they were within his reach again, Jon found he’d forgotten how to reach out, how to touch them. “I don’t... have the words to explain how glad I am to see you,”

Tormund leaned there, looking back at him, and if any of the brothers of the Watch were around to see Jon knew they’d think the pair of them mad. But Jon was content to drink in the sight of Tormund, of Ghost. He couldn’t look away.

“You hungry?”

He almost flinched at the sound of Tormund’s voice and he realized they’d been standing there in silence for several moments. Tormund probably thought the South had broken him.

“Yes,” He said, suddenly aware he was ravenously hungry and that he’d barely eaten since flying South more than a fortnight ago.

They moved to the main hall of Castle Black, Tormund pausing by one of the stewards still awake and asking him to fetch food. Jon found a table in the back, dropping onto a bench. He watched Tormund walk over, Ghost still lingering at his side. Once he’d sat as well Ghost circled to Jon’s side of the table and sat beside him, lowering his head to rest in his lap.

Jon sighed, some of his tension easing away as he lowered one hand to stroke his wolf's head. The steward from before returned, arms full of leftovers from their dinner. The meat was cold, the soup room temperature and watered down, the ale too bitter, but nothing had ever tasted better to Jon as he tore into it.

“Aren’t you going to have any?” he asked Tormund.

“I think you’re eating enough for us both. In truth, I think you’re eating enough for a small village. Were they starving you in the South?”

“If Grey Worm had his way they would have,” Jon said with a laugh as he finished off the chicken.

Tormund watched him in what he recognized as quiet amusement, or maybe the beginnings of awe, as Jon steadily worked his way through the mountain of food. He didn’t care, he couldn’t remember ever feeling this hungry before or finding any food so satisfying for it.

“You left your hair loose,” Tormund observed.

“Yes,” Jon said, “well, tying it back is more pain than it’s worth at the moment. My ribs are a bit tender from a rough landing, I suppose Arya would have helped - but tying it back was more hassle than I wanted to worry with.”

There was an awkward moment where Jon knew Tormund was dying to ask for war stories but refraining because he knew Jon wouldn’t tell them without a lot more drink in him that was on hand at the moment. Tormund would get the whole sorry tale out of him, eventually, but not this night.

“And you like my hair like this,” Jon pointed out.

Tormund’s smile was wry, “that I do,” he said, “Are you finished or should I have the steward fetch more?”

Jon laughed and pushed his empty plate away, “I’m good. But you could call him over and request he open the gate leading Beyond the Wall.”

“You don’t mean to travel North tonight do you?”

“No,” Jon said, “but I do want to stretch my legs a bit, get reacquainted with the True North.”

The corner of Tormund’s quirked a little and he stood to fetch the steward.

The three of them fell into an easy silence as they walked through the castle's halls, down the stairs, and through the tunnel.

It was dark but the torches in the tunnel lit the way. Jon grabbed one to bring with him as he ducked under the slowly raising gate. In twenty feet he was off the main path and knee-deep in snow. The light from his torch flickering across the barren trees surrounding this section of the wall.

He headed towards the Weirwood tree kept there, the one he’d sworn his oaths in front of a lifetime ago. He cleared away the snow and stuck the torch in the ground in front of it and knelt, looking into its bleeding eyes. He kept to the old gods, the old religion, but he found he didn’t remember how to pray anymore. He lowered his hands into the snow, the cold wetness making everything seem real. It hit him then, that this was real - somehow he’d survived the Army of the Dead, the Night King, Daenerys, and her descent into madness, he’d survived it all. And he was being given everything, his freedom in the True North, Tormund, Ghost, his dragons. His sisters were safe and living their respective dreams, his last brother was the ruler of six kingdoms. He wanted to laugh, cry, curl in a ball and do both at once. He did none of those things. He breathed deep and tilted his head back as the icy winds tugged at his hair and the snow soaked his clothes through. He looked into the sky, at the stars there, and felt cleansed and renewed.

“I... ah,” Tormund came to stand in front of him, just to the side of the Weirwood tree, “are you having some kind of breakdown?”

Ghost slipped between them, rubbing against Jon as he moved to lay in front of the tree.

Jon pushed to his feet until he was eye-level with Tormund, brushing away the snow, “I’m good, I didn't mean to worry you.”

It occurred to him that he hadn’t touched Tormund since he’d arrived. They hadn’t as much as brushed hands or reached out in greeting.

Jon knew Tormund was waiting on him to initiate, the man considerate in ways no one expected him to be. And Jon had one very good reason for why he hadn’t yet - he knew once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop.

There was no wall for either of them to slam each other against so Jon closed the distance between them and put his hand on the back of Tormund’s neck, not tugging or pulling, just resting there. An invitation, a request for permission. He felt Tormund shudder, exhaling shallowly under his hand.

“My little... pretty crow,” Tormund said, and the rasp in his voice told Jon all he needed to know that he wasn’t alone in this. That he still knew exactly where they stood. He pressed his lips to Tormund’s, pressed his body to his, molding them together as close as was possible with layers of clothes between them. This kiss wasn’t the gentle ones they’d exchanged before, or the heated passion-filled ones they coaxed from each other in bed. These kisses weren’t longing and resigned as their kisses had been at the end of their time in Winterfell. No, they were kissing so hard it was almost painful, their grips on each other tight enough to leave bruises.

Tormund’s hands found his face, cradling there as he walked them backwards as if there was a bed behind them and not an endless expanse of snow. He pulled back for a moment, studying Jon’s face, his thumbs rubbing at his cheeks.

“That’s a new scar,” he remarked, rubbing at the still raised line arcing down his right cheekbone. It didn’t seem to bother him any as he dove back in, the kisses so electric that Jon went weak at the knees and stumbled back.

Tormund chuckled against his lips, hands moving down to steady them.

A horn sounded out above them and they separated, their foreheads pressed together.

“Shift change,” Jon murmured, though what they were standing guard for, he didn’t know.

“Aye, maybe we should move this inside. They were kind enough to loan me a set of rooms while I waited here.”

Jon smirked, “how does it feel to be a welcomed and well-treated guest at Castle Black?”

“Fucking weird,” Tormund grumbled but his smirk matched Jon's and his laugh did too once Jon started. He couldn’t stop laughing, not even to better savor the sound of Tormund’s. His low, rueful laugh that he seemed to save for when he was alone with Jon. The most beautiful sound he’d ever heard and he put his hand back on Tormund’s neck and Tormund tightened his arms around him. Their faces tipped together and Jon nudged and nuzzled at him as he had that first time, fully confident Tormund would return the gesture. He never wanted to let go, never would let go.

“Not that this isn’t nice,” Tormund whispered, “but I really want to get you in bed and ravish you until neither of us can walk proper.”

Jon grinned, “we can try, but I haven’t slept more than a few minutes here and there for several nights,” he said, leaning a bit more heavily against Tormund, his earlier elation trickling away to leave exhaustion behind, “what I mean is, my heart is willing but my body may not be up to the task.”

“So we sleep first and fuck tomorrow,” Tormund said with a shrug.

Jon turned his face and they were kissing again, the gentle kissing that took his breath away until Tormund was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

It was the safest Jon had felt in a very long time.

* * *

Despite his earlier claims, it was Jon who wasn’t sleeping because he couldn’t make himself surrender to the blackness of true sleep. Tormund had fallen asleep more or less across him, snoring softly where he was tucked under Jon's chin. Tormund was asleep in his arms, and would hopefully spend every night for the rest of their lives there, and Jon didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this.

He didn’t know how long he laid there, the shutters blocking any light from entering the room. Ghost was strewn across their legs, his warm weight pinning them both to the bed.

Jon looked down at Tormund and watched him sleep, felt the steady rise of his breathing.

Ghost lifted his head then, turning accusing red eyes on him and he winced. He should be sleeping, he knew, he would need his strength when they journeyed to rejoin their people. But he didn’t want to waste a moment of this sleeping.

Ghost’s snout curled up in a silent snarl and Jon rolled his eyes at the bluff. He was so busy making faces at his wolf that he didn’t notice as Tormund’s snoring trailed off and he woke. Or rather, he didn’t notice until Tormund’s hand flailed upwards and found his face, fumbling in an attempt to close his eyes.

“Sleep, you fool crow, sleep,” he grumbled.

Jon smiled but shimmied lower on the bed, curling into Tormund and tangling their legs together. He drifted off to the sound of Tormund’s snoring and Ghost’s near-silent breathing.

His life had taken a strange and winding road, but he knew in his bones he’d ended up exactly where he was meant to be.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was a challenge to myself, to reach a similar ending for many of the main characters but in a different way. Daenerys going mad, Bran king in the South, Sansa queen in the north, Jon beyond the wall, Arya leaving, Jaime trying to save Cersei, etc. I left some endings vague on purpose beacuse the heart of this fic was Jon and Tormund and their families. 
> 
> FIll in any blanks how you like :)


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